


A Year of Sweet Dreams

by TheUniverse_Smiles



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Courtship, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kindred Spirits, Love Confessions, Romance, Slow Burn, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 68,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6481858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverse_Smiles/pseuds/TheUniverse_Smiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horrible Rumors about Lord Barnabas McGregor's past have circulated through the Scottish countryside and beyond, and allegations of murder have left him Miserable and broken. But when his Aunt becomes the benefactor of a young foreigner, Marianne Faedelle, he must welcome the young woman into his home while she learns the finer points of navigating high society. Though Marianne has heard the frightening stories, upon meeting the man himself, she finds that truth is very different from what people believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Awkward Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the late addition, but I couldn't kick the feeling that this first, vital chapter was missing something. Please enjoy!!

There was a soft wind blowing from the west, and it hummed a gentle lullaby to Marianne as she stared sleepily at the tall grasses and trees moving slowly past the window of her carriage. The clouds hung low and lazy in the sky as the setting sun glimmered in between them, creating a sparkling mosaic. It reassured her that the next year—her father would have called it an “adventure”—was not going to be as altogether horrible as it had been suggested it would be.

Her dearest friend Liza Pinedale, had spun a surprisingly dark tale, though Marianne had learned early in their acquaintance to take everything Liza told her with a grain of salt. Her friend enjoyed embellishing her tales to illicit others’ reactions. She warned her friend not to partake in idle gossip, and brushed the notion off as nothing but a rumor. Sadly, the whispers and stories that reached her ears during her long journey to Windcrest Manor had lent themselves completely to what Liza had said. One traveler spoke of the owner of the great estate—Lord Barnabus McGregor—as a philanderer and a cad, saying he had taken at least six wives in his near forty years, replacing one with the next, and abandoning them all in due course. Another insisted he’d built his fortune by murdering each of his brides after receiving her dowry.

By the time Marianne met the private carriage Lord McGregor had sent for her, she was quite nearly terrified. Following her own advice had proved to be very difficult, having never met the man herself, but she was determined to give this experience a fighting chance. As she gazed out the carriage window at the extensive grounds of the estate, she found her fear overtaken by curiosity. What sort of person was Lord McGregor? So far, all she knew was that the man was unsociable and wealthy—enough so that she was surprised at the lack of care the estate seemed to receive. The road upon which he travelled was unused and overgrown, and jostled the carriage about a bit more violently than she would have preferred, but she’d been told that Lord McGregor used it only twice a year, and that his servants had their own road into town.  
She wondered at his reasons for keeping himself locked so far away from the world. Why would he hide himself away? Surely a murderer wouldn’t be able to keep a house full of staff, so he must have a different reason. Was he ill, she wondered? Crippled? Weak in the head? Hush! She chided herself; what right did she have to make such wild speculations about a man she had never met? She quickly resigned herself to the notion that the man must simply prefer solitude, and let her curiosity fade.

It was half an hour before the Manor came into view. Marianne could see the glint of ivory marble behind what seemed to be vines attempting to overtake the manor entirely, growing up from what she guessed was a garden, left to go wild years ago. She supposed it had been a very fine, handsome building in its day, but now it loomed, dark and rather gloomy, against the pale pink of the sunset. As she took in the sight of the manor, and the pastel painted sky beyond it, her thoughts returned to Lord McGregor, and she began to wonder what he might look like. She imagined a stout, stocky, bearded man with flaming red hair, and an incomprehensible accent. She pictured him stomping around the estate, muttering crossly to himself. She quietly mumbled his name in her best brogue, and stifled a giggle as the carriage drew closer to her temporary home.  
***

Lord McGregor sat stiffly in his study, hand to his forehead, his expression one of dismay and agitation.  
“Bog, darling,” Griselda pleaded with her son, “I can understand your uneasiness after being without significant company for so many years, but think of how refreshing it will be to have a new face in the house! Do you not find it the least bit exciting?” She clasped her small, plump hands together before her chest and sighed.

“To be perfectly honest,” Bog retorted coldly, his brogue harsh, “I cannae say that I intend to have any contact whatsoever with the child. She is my aunt’s business, not mine.” Griselda brought her hands down to rest on her hips, and gave Bog a look that suggested she had grown weary of their conversation,

“She is not so very young dear, perhaps a year or two over twenty,”

“Anyone ten or more years my junior is a child,” Bog mumbled, and his mother huffed,

“She simply hasn’t had the advantages we’ve been afforded. Your aunt Plumb wrote to me just last week, singing the young lady’s praises. So much potential, she says! She sounds like lovely company, and expect you to be cordial.” Bog leveled an exasperated look at his mother.

“I have afforded her the luxury of dwelling in my home for the duration of her stay, and I dare say that is sufficient exchange for the few interactions that simply cannae be avoided. Should she require anything else of me, she would have to be a useful sort of girl, for which I have very little hope if she is, as you say, lacking even an elementary education.”

“You are too cruel,” Griselda snapped, standing herself up as tall as she could—which unfortunately still only put her at eye level with Bog’s chest—and glared at him, “I will not have you spewing falsehoods at my expense, nor anyone else’s. Whatever she may be, Miss Faedelle does not deserve such ill treatment, and you will make a concerted effort to improve yourself before she arrives.” Griselda turned on her heel and all but marched out of the room, leaving Bog no less displeased with the situation, if slightly more bewildered.

He rubbed his temple and settled back into his armchair. When had he given either his mother or his aunt, loved as they were by him, the impression that he would not only allow, but revel in the idea of a stranger living in his home? It would seem his senses had simply abandoned him at the moment when Plumb had pleaded with him for the use of the rear wing of his home in order to be a proper benefactor so some “Poor young thing” who needed her guidance and societal pull. The garden, when she requested the use of it, he’d encouraged her to do what she pleased with, as years of overgrowth had rendered it all but useless. If his aunt’s intention was to have this Miss Faedelle pulling his weeds for the next twelve months, perhaps she was not as useless as he had asserted. Bog chuckled at the thought, and leaned his head against the chair back; eyes closed, and listened to the breeze rustling the curtains through the open window.

After a few moments, another sound met his ears, and he turned to see one of his carriages—the one his mother had insisted he send to fetch their guest—coming up the drive below him. He sighed deeply, resigning himself begrudgingly to his role as host, and straightened his waistcoat as he made his way down to the foyer.  
***

The grand walls of Windcrest Manor shown even more magnificently up close as Marianne’s carriage drew further up the drive. The windows, some standard glass, others stained with vibrant colors, sparkled blindingly as the sun burned bright on the horizon. The overgrown vines that had threatened to swallow the manor at a distance, now gave it a sort of charm, and rather reminded her of the ivy climbing the walls of a cottage she’d known in her childhood. It was truly a very beautiful house, and she supposed that Lord McGregor could not be so horrible to live in such a lovely place. He had been kind enough to allow both she and his aunt to make use of it for such an extended amount of time, even having never been acquainted with her, though that was likely for the love of his aunt, she surmised.

Silvia Plume, or Aunt Plumb, as she’d been encouraged to call her, was a sunny, spirited woman who was nearly the heart of the town where Marianne had come upon her. After the passing of Marianne’s father, and the happy and advantageous marriage of her younger sister to a gentleman in the north of England, Marianne had found herself alone with naught but her wits. Aunt Plumb had been kinder to her than anyone in her time of need, and she would do whatever was needed to show her immense gratitude, even if it meant spending an entire year living in the home of the enigmatic Lord McGregor.

The carriage came to a halt in the shade of one of the many birch trees that lined the main driveway, and Marianne gathered her courage as the driver stretched, and opened the door, offering her his hand. She took it gingerly, and stepped slowly out into the speckled sunlight. She thanked the driver and turned, smoothing her skirts, to see a small, plump woman she didn’t recognize shuffling happily toward her, arms outstretched.

“Welcome, Welcome! Such a pleasure at last, my dear sister Silvia has told me so much about you!” Griselda took one of Marianne’s hands in her own and squeezed it. “My name is Griselda, dear, Griselda McGregor. I’m so pleased to have you staying with us, Miss Faedelle, truly!” Marianne relaxed and smiled,

“Please, call me Marianne. I’m pleased to be here, thank you.” Griselda beamed back at her, and gave the staff that had accompanied her brief directions as to where their guest would be staying, and then headed toward the front staircase with Marianne in tow. She inquired after the details of Marianne’s trip as they made their way up the stairs toward the large double front doors. As they neared the top, one of the doors opened suddenly, and Marianne paused on the steps. Out stepped one of the tallest men she’d ever seen—well over six foot, she was absolutely certain.

He was lean through the middle, but broad chested with wide shoulders. His legs were long, and the way he stood, with his hands clasped behind his back and his posture perfect, Marianne was sure he was the _only_ man she’d ever met to whom the word graceful could be applied. His hair was a dark, chestnut brown, of medium length, and the left side was smoothed behind his ear, while the right hung freely, framing his eyes. Marianne swallowed nervously. The man’s eyes were a bright, clear blue, and his expression was intense. His chin was long and slightly pointed, and his nose followed suit. She supposed for a split second that these were characteristics that many of her immediate acquaintance might have found off-putting, but she found it quite appealing, and rather fascinating.

Marianne realized a moment too late that she was quite obviously staring at the man, finally looking away when he narrowed his eyes at her. Griselda caught his expression and swatted him on the arm,

“Bog, dear, behave!” She whispered loudly, much to Lord McGregor’s chagrin.

“Mother, please,” he responded calmly, keeping his expression indifferent and extending his hand toward Marianne. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I am Lord Barnabas McGregor. Welcome to Windcrest Manor,” Marianne took his hand gently and curtsied, marveling at the way his name actually sounded when he spoke it,

“Marianne Faedelle, my Lord. Thank you for so generously welcoming me into your beautiful home, I hope my presence will not be an inconvenience.” Marianne met his gaze again, and for a split second, she could see what could only be described as bewildered confusion in his eyes before his mask of indifference returned.

“As do I,” he replied curtly, bowing quickly before releasing her hand and retreating back into the house. Marianne’s smile fell as she watched him go, and she wondered if she had somehow already managed to offend him.  
“Did I--?” She began, but Griselda cut her off,  
“No, no, dear, he’s just been in poor spirits recently. Don’t you fret over it; he’ll be himself again before we know it.” Griselda’s words were more of a personal hope than an outright fact, but she’d wager her late husband’s fortune that Marianne’s big brown eyes were just what her son needed.  
***

Bog returned to his study, frustrated and more bewildered than ever. What on earth had come over him? His interaction with the young woman had been nothing out of the ordinary, aside, perhaps, from his unpleasant glaring, which he knew she had not deserved. He paced beside the now-darkened window, attempting to discover what had unnerved him so. Had it been her hand, so small and delicate in his as she spoke her name? Or perhaps it was her gentle voice, so musical in quality and kind as she thanked him for something he had only moments before condemned as an utter annoyance.

Nae, he thought; it was her eyes, the way she looked at him, as if she could see into his soul. They were honest, and curious, and full of wonder as she had gazed at him, where in others’ he had grown accustomed to seeing only fear, or disgust. He knew he was not an attractive man, and had certainly been told so, but what had maimed both his reputation and his character were the hideous rumors that had hung like poison upon the lips of the townsfolk ever since—

He shut the thought away, clenching his right hand into a fist and bringing it down onto the arm of his chair as he sat once more. He cursed himself internally for not managing to keep his composure upon their first meeting, knowing that his rude and rather abrupt behavior would have to be apologized for. He would need a small flight of whisky in the morning before doing so; for the life of him, he didn’t know how he was going to face those eyes of hers without it.

*** Griselda led Marianne through the foyer toward the grand staircase, chirping excitedly about the history of the manor, and the town. As she moved tentatively through the unfamiliar space, Marianne couldn’t keep herself from staring upward in awe as the low entryway gave way to a high, ornate ceiling, decorated with diamond patterns and depictions of mythology. Even three stories above her head, she could make out scenes of a great battle between faeries and goblins set amidst a lush, green garden. The murals were dispersed in an even checkered pattern with gold textured panels, which perfectly complemented the dark oak moldings along the base of the walls on each floor. The walls themselves were painted a warm burgundy, and covered in faded paintings of everything from landscapes, to portraits, to pieces more abstract than any she’d ever seen. In the center, a sparkling chandelier spiraled downward into a point, a crystal dagger gleaming brilliantly as the light of day faded behind the hills. 

Two rings of polished oak banisters circled above her head, the lower dipping down before her, elegantly framing the staircase as she and Griselda approached it, and the higher resting as a halo would upon an angel. Once again Marianne felt her heart fill with hope, and she vowed then and there that she would not allow herself to be put off or upon by her short-tempered host, however often and arbitrarily he might choose to be cross with her. The two ladies ascended the staircase, and Griselda herded Marianne to the right, and stopped as they reached another door. It was made of a pale wood, and carved intricately with flowers interwoven with Celtic knots. Marianne brushed the detailing lightly with her fingers as she marveled at the craftsmanship. Griselda chuckled softly, and Marianne glanced up to see the older woman looking pleased, yet forlorn. 

“My late husband had this door commissioned as a…a wedding present,” the words seemed to stick in her throat. Marianne was moved by the sudden tenderness in Griselda’s voice, but expressions of empathy were hardly her strong suit. 

“I’m very sorry,” she cleared her throat, “for the loss of your husband,” she mumbled, giving Griselda a soft smile. Griselda shook her head quickly and patted the young woman’s hand. 

“Forgive me dear, just a fit of nostalgia,” she waved off Marianne’s uncomfortable expression, “This will be your private drawing room while you’re staying with us,” the door opened with a soft click, and the landing was flooded with soft candlelight from gilded chandelier within. 

Marianne gasped softly as the room unfolded before her. The walls in the drawing room were a muted olive green, and covered in delicate crisscrossing vines, embellished with pale pink flowers in full bloom. Brocade curtains of a dusty lavender obscured her view of the back garden, but she doubted it made much of a difference, having glimpsed its current state. There was an antique desk in the center of the room which, at the moment, was bare of pen and paper, inkpot, and ledger. There were three large armchairs, and a love seat, and all the upholstery was faded on one side; Clearly the morning sun had known this furniture for quite some time. There was a sizeable bookcase taking up a great deal of the far right wall, and a small side table that Griselda claimed contained sewing supplies. Everything appeared to have been recently dusted, for all the polished surfaces reflected the chandelier’s glow immaculately. It truly looked as though someone had come along and breathed new life into the room, after years of neglect, and that the room was grateful for it. 

Marianne took in her surroundings, turning slowly and absorbing the room, and Griselda eyed her fondly. She knew Bog would object to her choice of quarters for their guest, but she had run out of ways to try and make her son face his past, so this would have to do. 

Marianne’s smile far outshined the candles as she turned around to express her thanks. 

“It is absolutely perfect,” she beamed, “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.” Griselda waved her off again as though it were the least she could do. 

“Your private room is through there, dear,” she said, pointing to the door beside the bookcase, “And on the other side is a music room. Do you play the pianoforte?” she inquired. 

“Yes, a little,” Marianne she admitted awkwardly. She was loath to identify her proclivity for music as she so despised being forced to play for an audience. As it was, however, expected of young ladies to entertain in such ways, she would play when it was demanded of her, and bit her tongue for her father and sister’s sakes. It had been suggested, on more than one occasion, that she attempt to play with decidedly less physical force. 

“Well, we have a lovely instrument, a gift from my late husband and myself to Bog…rather, Barnabas, when he was young. Such a waste of talent,” she added, seemingly speaking to herself, “He was so gifted, and he has a pianist’s hands, just as you do,” she smiled, taking Marianne’s hands in her own and studying them appreciatively. They were small compared to Bog’s, as most were, but she had long, slender fingers that enabled her to glide across the keys quickly and easily. Marianne blushed at the woman’s attention and proximity, but was quickly coming to terms with the fact that the Lady McGregor was a bit of an unusual and unconventional woman, and Marianne couldn’t find any fault in the fact. 

Griselda released her hands with another swift pat, “Please, play as often as you like, dear. Heaven knows this old house misses its music.” Marianne nodded as Griselda made her way to the door, turning to wish her a good night, before leaving the young woman alone with her thoughts once again. Marianne let out a long, relieved sigh. She had survived the day, and her journey to Windcrest, and her introductions to her ill-tempered host and his slightly eccentric mother. _How my life has changed_ , she thought, glancing at her refection in the mirror on the opposite wall. _Tomorrow will be a new day_ , she told herself; _A new start._


	2. A New Arrangement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone caught the late addition I made to the first chapter, please take a look! Btw for reference, Bog is 36.

The morning brought with it the freshness of a new day, and Marianne woke calmly, the sweetness of her dreams vague, but still adrift in her mind. She rubbed her eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then sat up slowly. The cool sunlight of streamed through the small gap in the drapes, and she could just make out the small specks of dust dancing in it. Stretching, she slipped out of bed and made her way across the room to the large bay window. Pulling back the curtains, she was pleased to find that a love seat had been built onto the window sill. She tucked her right leg underneath her as she settled upon it, and gazed dreamily out the window.

The back garden was mangled and brown, save for the vines that stretched up the walls and over the window, partially obscuring her view.  _Self-sufficient little things_ , she mused. The rising sun cast a warm glow on the struggling fauna, and the subtle illumination gave it a sort of magical quality. Marianne’s warm breath blew puffs of condensation against the glass as she drew closer, craning to see around the vines as she suddenly spotted a green house on the far side of the garden. The vines had nearly swallowed it completely, but the sun betrayed its whereabouts as small, bare sections of the dull green roof glinted in the light.

Silvia had mentioned that they would be using the garden, which Marianne assumed meant that something would be done to improve it relatively soon. Given his disposition upon greeting her, it was clear that Lord McGregor was not altogether pleased with the arrangement, so it was hard to imagine him exhausting any sort of expense on reviving the deteriorating wildlife for her benefit. _He must either love his aunt very much, or be very frightened of her_ , she thought with a laugh.  

As Marianne sat day dreaming, she reached up absent mindedly and drew a pattern in the condensation, and the stinging cold of the moisture upon her finger sent a shiver through her body. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing gently for warmth, but at length the cold caught up with her, and she hopped off the window seat to dig through her trunks for her dressing gown.  The trunks were redwood and cherry, inlaid with a delicately swirling brass trim. They had been her mother’s, and Marianne felt exceedingly fortunate to have been bestowed such a keepsake. Her hair hung over her shoulder in a long, loose braid as she rummaged through her night dresses, making a mental note that she must spend part of the day unpacking and organizing her rooms.

She pulled free her dressing gown and slipped it on just as there was a soft knock at her bedroom door. She hugged her self again, this time in modesty, and perched herself on the edge of her bed.

“Come in,” she called, wary of who it might be. The door opened to reveal a small woman with white-blond hair, holding a tea tray. She gave Marianne a respectful curtsy,

“I am Innis, my Lady. I brought your morning tea, and I am here to help you dress.” Marianne blinked, confused and slightly embarrassed by the implication of Innis’ words.

“Forgive me, Innis. I…uh…” she stuttered, “there is no need to refer to me as…I am merely a guest of Lord McGregor’s Aunt,” she finished awkwardly. Innis’ cheeks flared red, and she bowed, flustered,

“Please forgive me, I didnae wish to offend you. I was given specific instructions to refer to you as I would his Lordship,” Marianne raised an eyebrow,

“May I ask who gave you these instructions?”

“Lady McGregor, Ma’am,” Innis replied nervously. Marianne considered this for a moment, then chuckled and nodded. She was far more at ease with the idea of Griselda having made such a request than she would have been if her son had done so. Innis tentatively met her gaze again, and Marianne gestured to the small table near the window.

 “Please, come in,” she said with a smile. Innis nodded, a faint smile on her lips, and shuffled over to the table.

 “Do you like black tea, my…excuse me, Miss…”

 “Marianne, please, and yes thank you,”

 “Miss Marianne,” Innis smiled and gave a short nod, then busied herself with pouring the tea and setting out a variety of scones and crumpets, as well as fresh strawberry jam.

 “There are sugar and milk, if you take them,” she added, setting out an ivory cup adorned with dainty flowers and leaves, and a matching saucer. Marianne thanked her and settled at the table, and a moment later Innis was all business.

 “Breakfast will be in the dining room at 9 o’clock. High tea is taken in the main parlor at two, and dinner is served at seven. Her ladyship requested that you meet with her after breakfast to discuss the days’ menus,” she eyed Marianne’s trunks,

 “I will see to it that your things are unpacked before noon. Now then,” she opened each of the trunks one by one, examining the contents briefly, until she found the ones that contained Marianne’s gowns and petticoats,  


 “Do you have a particular garment in mind for this morning, or shall I lay something out for you?” Marianne could feel the warmth emanating from her cheeks; she was unaccustomed to such attention and grandeur, but knew it would be prudent to acclimate herself sooner rather than later

“The lavender one, please,” she gestured to the gown resting at the top of the nearest trunk, “It’s my favorite,” she said sheepishly. Upon the creation of her arrangement with Silvia, she had been gifted with an entirely new wardrobe, a kindness which shocked and overwhelmed her. She had tried to politely object, but Aunt Plum had insisted with a fierce finality. Marianne had never had such opulence devoted to her, and it made her dizzy just to think of it. Silvia had impeccable taste; all the gowns were stunning and fashionable, but the comfort and sweetness of this one--a gift from her sister--were, to her mind, incomparable.

“Very well Miss, I shall draw your bath now.” Innis smiled and curtsied before disappearing into the washroom.

 

* * *

Lord McGregor woke with a start, frantic to escape the warm, knowing stare of Marianne’s brown doe eyes. They had invaded his dreams and made him feel completely vulnerable. Years of harsh words and poignant solitude had trained him to both fear and despise the wandering eyes of others, meeting their gazes with a practiced disdain. It had been an age since anyone had looked at him with such honesty.

He called for his valet to bring him tea and draw him a bath, already angry with himself for allowing such a creature as Miss Faedelle to affect him so greatly as to appear in his head while he slept. _Foolish old sod_ , he berated himself silently, running a hand through his mussed hair. He bathed and dressed quickly, leaving his mind no time to wander, and drew a deep breath before exiting his chambers, letting it out slowly as he descended to the second floor.

As he reached the bottom step, he followed the banister around to right toward the grand staircase, where he was promptly stopped in his tracks.

 Across the landing, emerging from _that room_ , was Miss Faedelle. She wore a lovely, simple day dress that cascaded pleasantly from her slender waist into wide tiers half way down. The contrast of the pale purple gown against her soft brown curls, gathered and pinned behind her head, caused his heart to beat loudly in his ears. She turned to close the door behind her, and Bog could see a long stray curl falling freely down her back, flirting with ribbon tied at her waist; he gulped, then cleared his throat, announcing his presence. Heaven forbid she should catch him leering at her, the gargoyle that he was. She would likely be so disgusted that she would likely demand to leave immediately and never see Windcrest again, whatever his Aunt might have to say about it.

 She turned and met his gaze once again, and it took quite a bit of strength for him not to avert his eyes. To his genuine surprise, she gave him a companionable smile as she approached the top of the staircase. He bowed out of habit, and forced himself forward. He clasped his hands behind his back as he neared her, suddenly finding himself completely unsure of what to do or say. As they reached each other, she curtsied, and his senses returned to him long enough to remind him to extend his hand to her as she rose. She placed her hand in his as she had done the day before, and before he could reason with himself, he lifted it gingerly to his lips and kissed it softly. Her skin was warm, and she smelled of flowers after fresh rain, but this discovery fled his mind as he froze once more, realizing what he’d done.

He bit his tongue as punishment for such a presumptuous gambit, and straightened himself, releasing her hand. He dared to meet her eyes, and was taken aback be her expression. Her eyes were wide, as surprised as he was himself, but there was no disgust, no dismay. Instead, unabated curiosity flooded her features for a moment, then she looked down bashfully and hummed a small laugh. Bog took the opportunity to shake his head, willing reason to return. _She did_ nae _enjoy that_ , he assured himself firmly. When had be become such a complete imbecile?

 “Good morning, my Lord,” she chirped, having apparently gathered her senses faster than he.

 “Good morning, Miss Faedelle,” he replied, thanking heaven for the small mercy of not having to have initiated pleasantries. They descended as she spoke again,

 “Has there been any word from Silvia on when she will arrive?”

 “Aye, as it happens,” Bog said, relieved that he didn’t have to suffer through an awkward silence, “I received a letter from my Aunt this morning informing me of a delay in her travels. She’s been called to the North of England for some business, and I dare say that she willnae be here for a month at least,” he glanced down at her and noted that her expression had become vacant.

She stopped halfway down the stairs, and Bog continued for a few steps before turning to inquire after her thoughts on the matter. From his current position, he could see her face more clearly, and realized with a twist of his stomach that she looked terrified. She stared blankly forward, eyes wide, brow furrowed, looking utterly helpless. For the third time that day, Bog scolded himself. Of course she was afraid, for who did she have? His Aunt Plum had given him a full account of her family situation; parents both deceased, sister married and living an entire country away. Plum was the entire reason the young woman had ventured here, and now she was gone as well. For all intents and purposes, the only person Miss Faedelle had to rely on in any capacity at this point was…

“Me,” he mumbled quietly, fear surging through him. And if he turned her out of him home, what would become of her? The very idea was ludicrous, or at the very least impractical. A handsome young woman with no familial ties to him or otherwise living in his house, left to her own devices and forced to share her days with _him_? The implications could ruin her, but he supposed that anyone who knew of her current whereabouts had already assumed the worst. He did not wish to inflict anymore hardship upon her, but the sudden desire to rid her eyes of such sadness persuaded him to action. It would only last until Plum arrived, after all.

He took a step toward her, lifting himself up to her height, and spoke to her softly,  


“Miss Faedelle,” She didn’t look up. She didn’t seem to have even heard him.

 “Miss…Marianne,” he said, a bit louder, and her head snapped up.

 

* * *

 _Delayed?_ Marianne repeated to herself. _An entire month?_ Her smile fell fast, and the hardships of the past few months crept back into her mind, knotting her stomach and throwing her heartbeat into chaos. She froze on the stairs, unable to make herself move forward another step for fear of Lord McGregor’s words reducing her to tears. She was only vaguely aware of him when he stopped the watch her. She would have to leave Windcrest, that much was certain. No Gentleman or Lord in his right mind would permit her to simply live in his home unwed and of such inferior birth. She had been a gentleman’s daughter once, but as far as anyone knew now, she was utterly disgraced, a fact that had nothing whatsoever to do with her current host’s generosity. She would not trespass on his kindness a moment longer than necessary, she decided. He had no reason to keep her here if Silvia wasn’t going to fulfill her part of their arrangement, and she doubted his small, rather affectionate gesture moments earlier had signified anything to the contrary.

 Knowing this, she was sufficiently alarmed when her name suddenly met her ear in a pleasantly low tone, and she jerked her head up with a start to see Lord McGregor at eye-level with her, his expression one of great concern. His eyes were so alluringly blue.

 “Marianne?”

 “Y-yes? Forgive me, I…” she stammered, turning from him to make her way back to her room, “I fear, in light of the circumstances, I must take my leave of this place,” She started back up the stairs, only to be stopped by a large hand around her wrist. She looked back, startled, and found the Lord McGregor was staring at her, looking lost and younger than he’d appeared the previous day.

“Please,” he said, releasing her hand and clearing his throat, “Please…forgive me, but I am a man of my word,” he began, hesitating for a brief moment, “If you would choose to leave, I will not stop you. You are free to go where you like, and return when my Aunt arrives,” his countenance was calm, but there was worry in his eyes and furrowed brow.

“However,” he continued, “If you would choose to stay here until she arrives and can fulfill our arrangement, then I would be honored to have you here as my guest,” his gaze had fallen midway through his discourse, but there was such genuineness in the way he spoke that Marianne found his introversion charming. Simultaneously, she was caught completely off guard by his offer.

 “You would,” Lord McGregor looked up at her as she spoke, “truly allow me to stay here? With you?” An air of hurt crossed her host’s features,

 “If you would rather stay elsewhere, I would happily pay for a room at the inn,” he added, sounding disheartened. Marianne amended her question.

 “What I mean to ask is, you— “

 “Bog, dear? Marianne? Where have you gone?” Lord McGregor went red, and the two turned to see Griselda waddling out of the dining room below them. She stopped when she saw them, and gave them each a meaningful look before continuing,

 “I’ve just heard the news about poor Silvia! Such bad luck, dear, of all the times to be called away! Well donnae you fret about it, we’re happy to keep you here with us! Aren’t we dear?” she gave Bog a pointed look, and he sighed, surprising both ladies with a faint smile.

 “Aye, mother,” he looked back at Marianne, “We would be delighted.” Marianne’s heart was overflowing with gratitude as she beamed at both of them.  


 “I cannot thank either of you enough for the sacrifices you’re making on my account. From the bottom of my heart, I am truly grateful,” Griselda began to wave off her comment again, but instead grabbed Marianne’s hand excitedly,

 “Oh, I have a lovely idea! While you’re here with us, perhaps you could lend a hand in helping prepare the estate for my sister’s arrival? I could use someone to keep an eye on the garden while it’s being revived,” she suggested “and I should think the greenhouse will be in need of a bit of color! Is that not a splendid thought?”

 “Indeed,” Marianne replied, “I must say, it’s a very fine idea,”

 

* * *

The conversation over breakfast consisted mainly of Griselda discussing the details of her plans for the garden. It was an inspired endeavor, and Marianne seemed pleased to be able to make use of herself during the interlude.

Bog said little, but remained pleasant, especially when Marianne would glance his way across the breakfast table and give him a shy smile. He had never felt so helplessly conflicted in his entire life. Pleased as he was for her happiness and willingness to remain in his home instead of occupying the town inn, his inner voice was screaming, begging him to resist the urge to become any more involved with the young woman.

He knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t heed even his own warnings if he wasn’t careful, and that he would regret it. He knew that one day he would slip up, get too close, and become hopelessly lost in her eyes as she broke his heart. He let the inevitability sink in and consume him, and soon his passive grin had twisted into a miserable snarl. Marianne gave him a questioning look as he stood stiffly and excused himself from the table, refusing to meet her gaze. Griselda watched him go with a sigh of frustration. Why couldn't the poor man let himself be happy?

There had been a time, years ago, when a handsome woman of his acquaintance had drawn him in with wistful looks and false smiles, and it had ruined him. His own selfish masochism would have him wasting away from the inside out if he ever afforded it the opportunity, and he didn’t believe himself capable of bearing it a second time.

 

 

 


	3. A Friendship Forged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I reference in this chapter is called Liebstraum, or Love Dream, by Franz Liszt. Thanks for all the love guys, I hope you continue to enjoy this story!!   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpOtuoHL45Y&index=6&list=FLfhISfbB_1VrDjV295yn4QA

Marianne stared at the garden from the faded frame of Windcrest’s rear entrance, wondering if perhaps she had taken on too great a task. From the ground level, she had discovered a deteriorated patio beneath the mangled thicket of vines and unkempt shrubs. The paving stones were cracked and sun-bleached, and many had been displaced over the years by the roots of surrounding plants and weeds. Hints of a system of intersecting paths branching out from the patio toward the greenhouse on the other side of the garden helped Marianne imagine the initial layout of the place. There was, to say the least, _much_ to be done.

She tread carefully along the clearest of the walkways, finding crumbling fountains and buried brick flower boxes. The vines, it seemed, were serving their original purpose of providing a certain wild charm to the Manor; they had simply been left to their own devices for far too long, and taken it upon themselves to sprawl about as they saw fit. They’re long grasping fingers splayed, scratching at the windows might be a cry for attention, Marianne mused as she continued her trek. It wasn’t far to the back wall of the garden; the space was actually rather small when one considered the size of the rest of the estate, but Marianne found it to be of a cozy size, one meant only for a certain few, which she could only describe as intimate.

She made her way along the garden wall, circling back toward the greenhouse, when she reached a tall iron gate. She perched herself up on her toes and peered through the vines. On the other side were the expansive lawns and forests that she had passed upon her arrival at Windcrest nearly a week prior. She was greatly relieved to see a long parade of lumber and mason’s carts approaching on the same road, eager to finally have something to occupy her time besides reading, sewing, and planning. There was a certain feeling of accomplishment and pride that one felt when seeing the fruit of their labors come to life before their eyes, and Marianne had been going mad with anticipation for the day when the garden would be conquered. She recalled a similar feeling enveloping her in her youth when she would master a new piece of music on her mother’s pianoforte; a dream realized, an endeavor rewarded.

The wind carried the sound of Griselda’s voice to Marianne’s ears, and she cut quickly back through the tangled brush and back into the house. The garden lay beyond the dusty, full-length windows of a grand, unused ballroom, which was an odd choice, to Marianne’s mind, as the garden itself seemed to be specifically intended for private use. The ballroom was comparably large, and as she swept across the empty dance floor, she spun herself around a few times, picturing the nights of lavishness that must passed in this hall.

She had attended many country balls, mostly at the persistent request of her younger sister, but had since resigned herself to a life with a decided lack of dancing. Sadness and unease squeezed her heart for a moment as she realized that she no longer saw the point in such trivialities. There had been many a time when she had longed to dance, felt the sweet ache of desire as a familiar pair of arms encircled her and whisked her across polished marble floors. Fate had seen to it that the ache swiftly turned into a staggering pain, worsened still by the final blow of being turned out of her late parents’ home by a snide, conniving beast of a man. Marianne grimaced at the thought of how much she had loved him, and how blind she had been. Griselda was shocked to see such a harsh look afflicting Marianne’s delicate features.

“What on earth is the matter, dear? Are you quite alright?” she fretted as Marianne came to her side, replacing the scowl with an amiable grin,

“Yes, quite. Forgive me, I’m afraid I became rather lost in my thoughts,” she admitted.

“Quite alright, dear,” Griselda replied then added quietly, “For a moment I feared Barnabas’ bad habits were taking you in,” before letting out a short, musical laugh. She prattled on about the carts and supplies as they made their way out to the driveway to watch the arrival of the laborers and landscapers. Marianne smiled politely, if half-heartedly, as she thought of Lord McGregor. Since their somewhat awkward encounter on the staircase the day after her arrival, her host seemed to have removed himself entirely from the goings on of his home. He took meals in his study, and had forgone all discussions on the plans for his garden. She felt quite at fault for his sour disposition, despite him openly welcoming her to stay with him.

At that time, he had shown her such courtesy and concern as to thoroughly confuse her. It had been as though the man she had met upon her arrival had melted away to reveal a gentleman as amiable and pleasant as any she’d yet known. She found it foolish how her hopes had soared for their amity during breakfast, having watched them come crashing down to earth as she had seen his smile retreat suddenly beneath a scowl.

There appeared to her to be a part of himself that he chose to hide away from others, a side he had inexplicably let slip that day, and since kept under secure lock and key. It intrigued his young guest to no end, and she found herself wanting to know him better, to talk with him and discover what sort of person he really was. Perhaps he would speak to her if she asked, she thought, a bit overly hopeful, based on her limited acquaintance with the man. Or perhaps he would think her daft and change his mind about allowing her to stay. Her reverie was broken as Griselda suddenly called out loudly,

“Bog, dear, how lovely to see you today!” She chirped, and Marianne looked up to see Lord McGregor striding toward them looking determined and oddly anxious.

“Good day mother,” he gave the older woman a polite bow, and shifted his gaze to Marianne, “Miss Faedelle,” he bowed again, then quickly straightened up and squared his shoulders.

“Forgive the interruption, but would you do me the honor of walking with me for a spell?” Marianne stared at him, surprised, as he offered her his arm. She searched his face for a clue as to his intentions, and though his expression was calm, in his eyes were chaos and confusion. Her heart fluttered in a strange manner as she tentatively slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and mumbled an absentminded apology to Griselda as they started down the drive.

* * *

 

Bog had discovered the hard way that he was every bit the pathetic sod he’d told himself he was. His behavior over the past week had been more abhorrent than his first meeting with his young guest, and he was sure she must despise him by now. What sort of man or lord could he claim to be when he deemed it acceptable to hide from the woman like a child? He had tried so very hard to convince himself that she was the uneducated, ill-mannered tripe he had imagined upon first hearing his Aunt’s absurd proposal, but it was proving quite an impossibility.

Over the past week, in light of his blatant absence from any household meetings and financial decisions, his mother had taken it upon herself to request Miss Faedelle’s assistance with such matters. His mother had brought him the monthly expenses to approve, accounting for the impressive sum he was dedicating to the restoration of the garden, and he had been shocked to see how well Marianne had budgeted for the project. One or two overheard conversations between she and his mother about the state of the thriving economy in Scotland, her impressive knowledge of tradition and music, and her unwavering amiability despite his discourtesy had him positively reeling. Plum had been entirely misinformed about Marianne in every possible way, no doubt gathering her so called information from the local gossip and blather, and he found it impossible to ignore his guest any longer.

He forced himself to at the very least appear calm as he approached the two ladies, an impressive feat considering he had not had to face Miss Faedelle’s captivating, perceptive gaze for several days. He had planned to give her a well-deserved apology and express his wishes to become better acquainted with her yet, if she would have his company. As he neared them, however, his mother’s excitedly smug expression had him dreading her being an audience to his discomfiture. Without thinking, he offered his arm, and his heart thumped loudly as Miss Faedelle looked at him with those warm, penetrating eyes, no doubt able to see clearly the confusion raging within him. By an utter miracle she took his arm, and he let out a slow, uneven breath as they headed down the drive together.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Bog making sure they were well out of sight and earshot of his mother. The mid-morning sun, rather uncommon this time of year—almost any time of year, really—blinked down at them between the leaves of the birch trees as they mirrored they’re path. Unable to stand the silence for another moment, Bog opened his mouth to speak, only to swallow his words as Marianne spoke first,

“I hope I have not been any trouble, my Lord,” she said softly, not looking at him.

“Nae, certainly not,” he replied, perhaps too hastily.

“Truly?” she prodded, making Bog despise himself even more for making her believe something so ridiculous.

“I assure you, Miss Faedelle, you havenae caused me any hardship,” _at least not in the way to which she is referring_ , he remedied internally. In truth, he was in utter turmoil, and it was completely her doing. He glanced sideways at her, unable to decipher her thoughts from her expression. Clearing his throat, he took advantage of her silence,

“I had hoped that you would permit me to apologize for my incivility,” he spoke slowly, pushing himself to make his sentiments as clear as possible, “Both upon your arrival, and during the past several days. I…” he paused, searching for the right words, “…I am no’ accustomed to amiability in strangers. I havenae been fortunate enough to keep any pleasant company or acquaintance outside of what little family I still possess,” he admitted, still watching her face as he spoke, “I sincerely apologize,” Marianne kept her gaze fixed forward, but her voice had an air of renewed curiosity,

“May I inquire as to the reason for this imposed solitude?” she asked boldly. She did not mince her words, which he could certainly appreciate. He sighed, supposing that she had the right to know at least a little about the man with whom she was living.

“Did my mother happen to tell you that I was married once?” he asked, seeing the answer in her surprised expression before she spoke,

“No, she did not mention it, my Lord,” Bog nodded and continued,

“Aye, well, it was brief, I’m afraid…she passed away some years ago,” he caught Marianne’s pained look as she finally peered up at him,

“I’m so sorry, my Lord,” she whispered, clearly moved in some fashion by this development. He tilted his head slightly so as to get a better look at her face, and saw that her eyes were filled to the brim with sadness and empathy. She knew loss well, he remembered. He shook his head,

“She was ill, and there was nothing to be done. I loved her dearly, but…” his expression darkened, and the two paused on the path as it rounded the side of the house.

“Yes, my Lord?” Marianne inquired after a few moments of silence, and Bog smiled sadly,

“The disease took her mind, you see. She forgot who I was entirely. She became…frightened of me,” his chest tightened he spoke, remembering the cruelness of the heartbreak she’d inflicted upon him, though he knew it was hardly her own fault.

Bog hadn’t realized that he’d balled his hand into a fist until he felt the sudden warmth of Marianne’s hand on his, and a gentle squeeze where she still held his arm. He looked down at her hand where it lay, and reached up to take it. For a split second he had half a mind to swat her away, but instead he brought his hand down softly upon hers, patting it appreciatively. There was no practicality in shunning a kindred spirit.

 

* * *

 

Lord McGregor’s large hand was pleasant as it patted hers gently, seeming to express the thanks he could not articulate. Marianne certainly knew the deep, searing pain of loss; she’d been at her mother’s bedside when she’d left them. The sting of a loved one’s death never truly leaves one’s heart or mind. It is an obstacle to be conquered every waking moment, and often times one cannot help but surrender to the misery it inflicts upon them. She mourned for her mother and father every day, to some degree, and while it had broken her heart to lose them, the betrayal by her former fiancé had devastated her completely. She had bent and bent until she broke, and he had left her to pick up the pieces alone.

After meeting Silvia, Marianne had begun to feel as though she were slowly healing, and having the opportunity to bring the garden at Windcrest back to life had greatly helped mend the holes she felt aching inside her. Where before there were raw, shuddering surges of grief, she now felt a more manageable, if occasionally persistent, pang of embarrassment and regret. For this reason, she had made a habit of forcing herself to keep busy, and stop her mind from wandering.

She and Lord McGregor differed in this way, she thought; she had been taught and encouraged to pick herself up and become stronger by learning from her mistakes, whereas the man she was coming to know seemed to lack the determination to move on from his misfortunes. Granted, she had never lost a spouse, but she had begun to believe that, perhaps, she could help him rediscover his happiness the way his generosity was doing so for her. Marianne gave her host an encouraging smile, and they set forth on the walking path once more.

“I believe I understand you a little better now, my Lord” she mused as they strolled. Lord McGregor balked, but appeared to decide that he rather enjoyed the idea,

“Is that so?” he replied, noting her rather amused tone.

“Yes, it is, sir, and in light of this, I would like to make a request,”

“Oh?” he questioned hesitantly. They stopped walking once more, and Marianne turned to face him. She gathered her courage and spoke with all the confidence she could muster,

“I would very much like to be able to call you my friend,” she said, suddenly feeling shy with Lord McGregor’s surprised stare fixed upon her. It was a similar look to the one he’d given her that morning on the stairs; concern and helplessness. She elaborated in an attempt to reassure him of her meaning,

“I suppose what I mean is, well…” her cheeks reddened as she realized she didn’t quite know exactly _what_ she meant, “I can…listen,” she said slowly, “If you should wish to…to speak,” Lord McGregor quirked an eyebrow, an amused grin spreading across his face, “to me,” Marianne added for good measure. He startled her with a low laugh which he tried and failed to hide by coughing. As he sputtered and chuckled behind his hand, he ran his fingers absentmindedly down his cheeks to his chin and flashed her an elated smile. His blues eyes were bright, and long unseen laugh lines crinkled in the corners. It was a stunning transformation, and Marianne realized with a loud _thump_ of her heart that she found him very handsome.

“I would very much enjoy a friend,” he said as he recovered, “to listen while I speak,” Marianne smiled sweetly in return, and took Lord McGregor’s arm once again as they resumed their turn about the estate.

*

In the hours that followed the insight into their understanding of each other, Marianne and Lord McGregor spoke with the landscaper at length about the plans for the garden. Despite his absence from other such discussions, Marianne was impressed with how well-informed her host already was. No doubt Griselda had kept him up to date during her visits with him, and as the day neared its end, he seemed as enthralled as she with its impending metamorphosis.

As dinner arrived, however, his apprehension had returned noticeably. His leg began to shake nervously as the meal progressed, and Marianne prayed that he would not run away again. She tried to smile at him encouragingly, but all this seemed to accomplish was painting a subtle red hue onto his cheeks. She had asked him if he would be joining them for meals again, and while she was pleased that he had confirmed his continued attendance, she felt guilty that he was enduring such discomfort simply to please her.

The meal came to an end, and Lord McGregor looked ready to flee. She ventured a glance at Griselda, who merely shrugged sadly. Marianne’s eyes flitted around the dining room, searching for something… _there must be_ something _I can do_ , she thought. Still trying to avoid meeting Lord McGregor’s eyes, her gaze landed on a smooth wooden surface in the room directly behind him, and an idea blossomed in her head. It made her exceedingly nervous, but she stood, excusing herself, and took calm, measured steps toward the grand pianoforte. She was relieved when only Griselda turned to discover where she was off to, and the older woman gave her a joyous grin.

As Marianne reached the pianoforte, she brushed its surface with her fingertips, remembering her mother. She sat down on the cushioned bench and began to flip through the sheet music that was haphazardly piled on a nearby table. Her mother had played beautifully. When Marianne was young, her mother would sit her on her lap and play her lullabies when she’d had a bad dream. After she had perished, Marianne had done the same for her young sister, Dawn, and even her father at times. There was a chance, she supposed, that it would help the poor, scared man in the dining room calm himself and feel at ease. She found a piece she was familiar with entitled “Liebstraum”, and laid it out, stretching her hands before touching her fingers to the ivory keys.

 

* * *

 

The music that broke his panicked reverie was sweet and soft, and undeniably melancholy, played as though the pianist was dying of a broken heart, longing for something long ago lost. He sat frozen for several moments, unable to do anything but listen as the melody wound its way around his heart and squeezed. As the tempo increased and the melody became more complex, he found the strength to stand, and turned to fix his eyes on the person playing instrument. He was mesmerized by the sight of Marianne perched at the piano, the song she played flowing through her with incredible finesse and passion. Her eyes appeared to be closed, save for when they flitted up from the keys to briefly look over the sheet music.

He moved slowly toward her, drawn in by the raw emotion she imparted through the music as she played. The melody morphed again into something bittersweet and heartbreaking as Marianne’s fingers moved deftly over the keys, and too soon it had ended as sweetly and sadly as it had begun. He watched as her fingers withdrew from the glimmering keys, and as her eyes met his, she smiled at him tentatively,

“Are you alright, sir?” she inquired quietly, and his stomach flipped pleasantly.

“I…aye, I…” he stammered, collecting his scattered thoughts, “I am…fine,” he blinked, smiling in wonderment, “Very fine indeed.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapters are so short guys, I'm working on this around a pretty demanding day job. Bear with me!! >


	4. Heart to Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some speculation from Griselda's POV. Also, longer chapter, woo!

Griselda smiled to herself as she listened to Marianne play from the dining room table. The melody was beautiful, as haunting as it was enchanting, and she reveled in the way it captivated her son.

“Thank you, Marianne,” she whispered, so low even she could hardly hear the words. Bog needed this. He needed the company of another soul to ease his pain and anxiety. She’d done her very best to comfort him, but there was only so much a mother could fix when it came to a broken heart. She could sit with him for days and try to assure him that he was a wonderful man, worthy of company, and friendship, and love, but such an effort would have undoubtedly fallen on deaf ears. When her sister had mentioned Marianne and her intentions, she had jumped at the opportunity to invite them both into her home. She had given Bog some excuse or other about Silvia not having enough room for such an endeavor, and though he’d been very resistant to the idea, she’d given him no chance to argue or protest.

She had been even more thrilled than she expected the Marianne had arrived at Windcrest. She would never admit it, but based on Plum’s description, she’d expected some sort of homely scullery maid or the like, someone whom could afford to forgo conventional beauty once she became a proper lady. Still, it was better than nothing. When Marianne had stepped out of their carriage, however, she was absolutely radiant. Tired, of course, the journey clear upon her face, but there was no denying the young woman’s beauty, and she knew her son had taken notice, as well. The years of loneliness and solitude had made him irritable and shy, but no less of a good, decent man. She had no doubt that Marianne’s presence would remind him how to behave like a gentleman, and hopefully help him heal.

Griselda leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, letting the melody swim through the room around her. She heard the gentle scrape of Bog’s chair against the floor as he stood and made his way slowly into the parlor, and her smile widened. Marianne played every bit as proficiently as he had, and with such emotion. She wondered if her son might even grace them with a performance someday soon. _Don’t be too hasty_ , she thought, slowing her racing mind; _one thing at a time_. It was enough for her that Bog seemed to slowly be allowing himself to feel happiness again, and she prayed that this progress would continue.

The music turned soft and tender as she listened, and slowly, sweetly came to an end. There was a brief silence, and she could make out a muffled exchange of words. She couldn’t quite understand what was being said, but it sounded to her as though Bog were smiling.

* * *

 

Marianne sat silently at the pianoforte, lost momentarily in the brightness of Lord McGregor’s eyes as he smiled warmly at her. It was different from his smile earlier that day as he’d laughed, though no less genuine. It was softer, humor replaced by joy; it was tender, she realized with a small gasp, and she looked away, shaking her head slightly and grasping for words,

“I am pleased you found it so agreeable,” she said quickly, removing herself from the piano bench and gesturing toward it, “Would you…rather, do you play, sir?” she stammered smoothing her gown and organizing the sheet music as an excuse to keep her gaze averted. She heard his tone shift decidedly, and an involuntary glance in his direction revealed him looking suddenly uncomfortable. _Well done_ , she chided herself.

“No, I beg you, I,” he surprised her with a short laugh, “I havenae played since I was your age,” he fiddled his hands nervously behind his back. She narrowed her eyes; her curiosity piqued, and she gave him a coy smile,

“Well I dare say that cannot have been so very long ago,” She delved, hoping to uncover another fact about her mysterious host. He chuckled quietly, clearly self-conscious, but forthcoming all the same,

“I am at least ten years your senior, I’m afraid,” he admitted sheepishly. Marianne had been told he was nearly forty, but save for the laugh lines near his eyes and the slightly greying hair near his temples, it was hardly noticeable, and he word his age well.

“That is not so great a difference, sir. My father was twelve years my mother’s senior when they were married,” She quipped offhandedly, only realizing the implication of her words when Lord McGregor blinked in surprise and went beet red. They stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments before Griselda breezed into the room, saving them both and changing the subject.

“I have the most wonderful news!” she exclaimed, waving a freshly opened letter in the air, “My dear sister Silvia will be upon us in no less than three weeks, just as she said she’d be!” Bog cleared his throat and stepped away from Marianne. When had he gotten so close, she wondered?

“Forgive me, mother, but Silvia is punctual by nature, except on rare occasions,” he half glanced in Marianne’s direction, then back to his mother, “I fail to see how this is news, as it is not at all surprising.”

“Oh pish posh,” she tutted, turning her attentions to Marianne, “My dear girl, I feel strongly that we must give you a proper welcome. After all, you’ve travelled such a long way and waited so long. We have just enough time to plan!” Marianne could not fathom her meaning, but Lord McGregor appeared to comprehend perfectly. His expression instantly went flat and his eyes darkened,

“Mother, no.” he said firmly, his jaw tight. Griselda, however, seemed to have made up her mind, and she met her son’s glare head on as she spoke,

“We will hold a ball here at Windcrest upon my sister’s arrival, to welcome her home and to introduce you, my dear!” she broke eye contact with Lord McGregor long enough to give Marianne a sunny smile.

“I, well…”  Marianne stammered, looking equally as uncomfortable as her host. But Griselda was already off in her own world making lists of guests and caterers, and she swept out of the parlor in a flurry of excitement, leaving the two standing stiff and silent by the pianoforte. Marianne let the older woman’s words sink in, and cautiously looked over at her companion. He was squeezing his eyes shut while his fingers rubbed the bridge of his nose. He met her eyes as his opened, and gave her an apologetic look,

“There’s no stopping her, I’m afraid,” he muttered, clearly irritated, “There would be no point in arguing the matter.” Marianne looked at the floor apprehensively,

“I’ve not been to a ball in ages,”

“Nor I, I dislike crowds,” Lord McGregor agreed quietly.

“I dislike dancing,” Marianne said with a short laugh.

“I’m sure you dance wonderfully,” Lord McGregor smiled, and Marianne found his encouragement charming. She blushed lightly at the thought of being in his arms as they floated across the floor of his ballroom, but pushed the image away when her stomach twisted reactively.

“I did once,” she replied, “Enjoy it, I mean. I never missed a chance to take advantage of the opportunity to dance, and I adored waltzing…however…” she trailed off, shaking her head. In her peripheral, she saw Lord McGregor tilt his head down and forward to look at her, as though willing her to continue.

“It is difficult,” she sighed, “to find a suitable partner, as I believed I had,” her brow furrowed, remembering the man who had shattered her heart. She couldn’t help but think of how different he was from the man who stood beside her now. He had been all sweetness and gifts, praises and chivalry, not to mention decidedly handsome. But behind his mask of false love and pure intentions, she had found a snake, a poisonous viper ready to strike her down without a second thought, and he had.

She looked up and unabashedly locked eyes with Lord McGregor, studying his features. He appeared to be a bit more relaxed under her scrutiny than when they’d first met, which was to be expected. He could certainly be an intense man, and his fierce scowl could be alarming and unpleasant, but she had learned that it, too, was a façade. When he let it fall, he was kind and genuine, rough around the edges, to be sure, and noticeably at war with himself about which parts of him he showed her. He was flawed and gruff, compassionate and generous, and so quintessentially human that she couldn’t contain the small hint of affection for him that flared within her.

With a small sigh of resignation, she dropped her gaze and curtsied before turning back toward the dining room,

“Excuse me, sir, I must speak to the landscaper,” Lord McGregor said nothing, but she could feel his empathetic gaze follow her as she left the parlor.

* * *

 

_I suppose we’re even now,_ Bog thought as he watched the garden from his study. A team of fifteen men were plowing mercilessly through the tangled mess of weeds and overgrowth, stacking sacks full of soil in piles against the back wall, and scrubbing down the walls of the greenhouse, inside and out. There was so much work to be done, and even though his mother insisted that it would be ready in time for the ball on the next Saturday evening, Bog was still skeptical. Tearing out the weeds and replacing the dead plants was one thing, but bringing in new fountains, replacing the broken, faded paving stones? The poor bastards certainly had their work cut out for them. But that was Marianne’s problem, he supposed, and if she didn’t possess the pillar to ensure that everything would be finished on time, his mother certainly did.

Bog sat back in his armchair, and leaned his cheek against his fist in contemplation. A ball, of all things; his mother must be trying to kill him. He had spoken truthfully to Marianne about his abhorrence for crowds. After his late wife had died, he had buckled under the weight of so many accusing stares as to frighten him into seclusion, and he truly feared that the imminent event would bring nothing but more of the same. What would they think of him, of Marianne? The implications were ghastly. Was his mother completely insane? The answer was yes; insane and steadfastly determined.

He stood once more and began to pace, glancing out of the window as he passed it. He faltered for a moment when one the workers below, who had been tugging on the remnants of an old sapling, suddenly toppled over backward, the soil finally giving way and freeing the decrepit roots. The man had pulled with such strength that the sapling flew from his grasp, end over end, and landed with a thud against another man’s chest, spraying his face with mud. As the two righted themselves, an idea sprang into Bog’s head, and he rushed from the room to find his mother.

He found her sitting in the parlor reading, no doubt taking a well-earned rest from the demands of planning the celebration.

“Mother,” he said as she glanced up at him over the rims of her reading glasses,

“Yes dear?”

“I cannae do this,” he stated simply. Griselda rolled her eyes and gave him a firm look.

“Bog, _dear_ , I can assure you that there is nothing you can say that will deter me, and even if there were, I have just now sent a letter to your aunt informing her of the festivities. I dare say she will be severely cross and disappointed if she returns to an empty house,” she cautioned, returning to her book. Bog swore under his breath, and flinched when his mother’s sharp tone cut through the room,

“Language, Barnabas. You and I both know that I raised a gentleman, not a common reprobate,”

“My apologies,” he mumbled, “but please listen; send another letter, and rewrite the invitations if you must, for I would have it be a masked ball,”

“Masked?” Griselda asked incredulously, “Certainly not. Why on earth would I wish to rob the local society of Marianne’s inherent beauty? She is to be _presented_ , not hidden away, and they will come to know her soon enough, so there is no point to such a thing,” she nodded, agreeing with herself. Bog sat across from her and stared at her with a serious expression until she looked up again,

“Yes?” she huffed,

“Mother, please listen to me. I am nae trying to hide Marianne from anyone. I am trying to hide myself...for her benefit,” he explained sadly. Griselda closed her book and straightened up in her chair. She reached forward and took one of her son’s hands in hers,

“What do you mean, dear?”

‘Let us be honest,” Bog sighed, closing his eyes, “No matter what Plum might teach Marianne about moving in higher circles, it will be for nothing if she is in any way associated with me,” Griselda considered this for a moment,

“But Bog, what happened with Lorna,”

“Don’t,”

“That was so long ago, surely now people would—“

“Mother, stop!” Bog bellowed, rising to his feet as his mother recoiled, “Are you truly so naïve as to think that _anyone_ has forgotten? People will nae simply _forget_ if they are by no means uncertain of guilt, and _I am guilty_ ,” he annunciated the last few words, all but sobbing angrily, “Lorna is dead, and it is _my fault!_ ”

* * *

 

Marianne wandered listlessly through the south hall of the Windcrest’s third floor, examining the paintings that hung there, and peering out the large windows at the duck pond in the distance. The gardeners had gone for the evening, and dinner was not for an hour yet, so she had seized the opportunity to explore a bit. As she walked, she heard a door open somewhere nearby, and the shuffling of feet headed toward the stairs. She retraced her steps to the end of the hallway and peeked over the bannister to see Bog descending rapidly to the first floor, looking distressed. A pang of worry ran through her, and she followed to see if he might be in need of assistance.

She followed the sound of muffled voices to the drawing room, and as she approached, she could make out the conversation taking place within through the small crack in the door.

“—be honest,” she heard bog say, noting that he sounded rather sad, “No matter what Plum might teach Marianne about moving in higher circles, it will be for nothing if she is in any way associated with me,” Marianne’s heart lurched at his words and she closed her eyes, hating the way he always found a way to condemn himself. Marianne reached for the handle,

“But Bog, what happened with Lorna,” Griselda said softly, and Marianne froze. _Lorna…his wife?_

“Don’t,” Bog’s voice cracked with an edge of rage.

“That was so long ago, surely now people would,” Griselda was cut off by her son’s sudden roar,

“Mother, _stop!_ ” he yelled, thoroughly frightening Marianne as she jumped back from the door.

“Are you truly so naïve to think that _anyone_ has forgotten?” His brogue was thick and harsh as he spat the words, “People will nae simply _forget_ if they are by no means uncertain of guilt,” he yelled, “and _I am guilty_ ,” Marianne heard him gasping for air, his breathing ragged as he choked on his words, “Lorna is dead, and it is _my fault_!” he exclaimed. Marianne covered her mouth with both hands, both to silence her breath, and in pure shock. The rumors and gossip she’d heard came rushing back as she stood, absorbing what she’d heard. Was everything she’d been told…true? She didn’t want to believe it, and she hated herself for considering it as a possibility, and the conversation almost went on without her hearing.

“Sweetheart, there was nothing you could have done, she was so ill, the poor thing,” Griselda’s tone was so tender and sad it made Marianne’s heart ache in her chest,

“She was ill because of me!” Bog cried, “She…it was…” he trailed off, and she heard the brush of fabric against fabric as he sat, and a low sob escape his lips,

“It was the pregnancy,” he said, faltering. Marianne froze. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his late wife having been with child when she died…but of course it was none of her business. _I shouldn’t be listening to this_ she scolded herself, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the door.

“The sickness, the psychosis, the…the _blood_ ,” he sobbed again, “It was my doing. If I hadn’t…if we hadn’t been married, she never would have—“

“Now hush,” Griselda interrupted, “Don’t you speak so ill of yourself, it was not your fault, Barnabas. It was God that took her, and her dimwitted father that ruined your reputation with his cruel lunacy,” she assured him, “These things happen dear. For better or for worse, certain events come to pass because it is meant to be. They can tear us down or build us up, but we must take them in stride, mustn’t we? Now you listen to me, Bog. You have been granted a marvelous opportunity, a chance to help people see the man you really are,” she said affectionately, “Marianne is that chance,”

Marianne stood silently outside the door, heart racing, panicked and anxious to hear what the Lady McGregor meant.

“Her presence has already helped you finally begin to heal, have you not noticed?”

“Aye,” Bog whispered, “I have,” Marianne’s heart stirred.

“Prove to her that you are more than this. You are a gentleman, and a Lord, and far and away one of the finest men I have ever known, including your father,” Griselda reassured him, “The rest will follow.” Marianne could see through the door just enough to make out Lord McGregor sitting hunched in a chair, head in his hands.

“They won’t forget, mother. I’ve come to terms with it, just please make sure that Marianne doesnae have to be seen with me. She deserves better than to have her reputation thus tarnished.” He sighed. Marianne backed away from the door, somehow angry with herself for inadvertently being the cause of so much suffering. He blamed himself for the untimely death of his wife and their unborn child, and now he was convinced that he would never be good enough for anyone, even she. As Marianne turned to go back to her room, she ran head long into Innis, whom she had not heard approach her.

“Oh! My sincerest apologies, Miss Marianne!” Innis exclaimed, fluttering her hands about as Marianne straightened her frame,

“It’s quite alright, Innis, I was just—“ She paused as the door creaked open behind her. She turned around slowly and found Lord McGregor staring at her, a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and fear clouding his eyes. It was clear that he knew she had overheard his conversation. Marianne was mortified,

“F-Forgive me. A thousand apologies, I…I heard shouting, and I just…” Lord McGregor’s eyes glassed over, and his expression went blank. Before Marianne could protest, he had pushed past her stiffly and headed for the stairs,

“My Lord, please, wait,” she plead, but it seemed there was no stopping him.

* * *

 

Bog climbed the stairs in a cold sweat. She knew…she knew, and he would never see her again. He’d confessed to murder, and he knew she was smart enough to turn tail when it meant her life. She never should have come to Windcrest in the first place. She’d have been much better off not knowing him or his pathetic plight. He opened the door to his study, and closed it behind him without ceremony, lacking the energy and wherewithal to slam it one moment, and so full of rage the next that he banged his fist against the wall beside the door. Hard. He wanted to scream, to break everything in sight, though he was beginning to shake so badly that it was becoming a chore to even stand. Misery and panic gripped him as his breath quickened uncontrollably. Back pressed against the wall, he slid the ground and put his head in his hands, letting himself be consumed by his fears and regrets.

*

After what seemed like hours, he was brought back to reality by a soft knock at his door. He said nothing, hoping whomever it was—likely his mother—would leave if unacknowledged. His breathing had slowed, and his rage had subsided, replaced by a familiar, throbbing ache of hopelessness. He had been so long on the floor that every inch of him seemed to creak as he stretched. He would wish no one to see him in this state, even Griselda. After a moment, there was another soft tap. His voice was thick and hoarse as he spoke, hardly more than a whisper.

“Please leave me be, mother. No doubt Marianne will need to speak with you about making arrangements at the inn. No doubt you will be of better use to her than I,”

“I was not aware that I was leaving, sir,” came Marianne’s soft reply, and Bogs heart leapt into his throat, and he was immediately overcome with shame for how he was torturing this poor woman. His emotions had been so tumultuous and erratic that he was likely giving her whiplash. Whatever his mother might say, Marianne deserved so much better than the old, broken man that he was. He leaned his back against the door, unable to summon the words to express his regret.

“May I speak with you, sir?” Marianne’s voice was full of compassion and warmth, coated lightly in hesitation. Still, Bog said nothing. There were a few moments of silence, then the sound of fabric rustling, and light scratching sounds against the door. Bog jumped slightly when Marianne’s voice was suddenly coming through the door beside his ear. Was she…had she sat down on the floor in the middle of the hallway? To speak to _him_?

 “I suppose it is fair if you do not wish to speak to me. It was very discourteous of me to intrude on your privacy. I hope you will accept my deepest apology, my Lord,” she sounded unexpectedly saddened by the thought of having him not inclined to speak to her, a fact that Bog found to be not altogether disagreeable. She had invaded his privacy, and in turn learned things he’d hoped never to have shared, but who could blame her? Women were enticed by gossip, were they not? And to revel in others’ misfortunes was simply human nature. Is that why she was still here? To bask in his misfortunes and gather more kindling for the fire? Had the warm, disarming intensity of her eyes not already seared him? Before he could thoroughly work himself up again, Marianne spoke,

 “I was nearly married once,” she whispered, and Bog was not sure he had heard her correctly. She had been engaged?

“When I was young—“

“You are still very young,” Bog interjected hoarsely, and he heard Marianne give a quiet laugh before continuing with her anecdote,

“When I was sixteen,” she began again, “I was engaged to a gentleman of my family’s acquaintance, whom I was very much in love with,” her tone was flat, as though the facts she was recounting were purely clinical, and not living memories. The idea of her in love with another man made Bog’s chest tighten in an odd, uncomfortable fashion,

“My father adored him, and was thrilled when we announced our engagement, so much so that he rushed to the town notary and had him written into his last will and testament,”

“How foolish,” Bog speculated,

“Yes, it was rash to be sure. I have no brothers, you see, and he was convinced that it was the only way to ensure his estate remained in our family. He expected it to mean I would be taken care of, and my sister was already married” she paused, and Bog sat patiently as she gathered her thoughts. He had not expected in the least that she would be bearing her secrets to him, though it seemed like fair repayment for eavesdropping on him,

“My father died suddenly, the doctors tell me it was a heart attack; ‘such bad luck on the eve of your wedding’ they said. The nerve,” there was an edge to her voice now, and Bog felt it somehow suited her. Rough edges were dangerous, but beautiful and surprising, and to hear such a tone escape her lips was oddly satisfying.

“The day before we were to be wed, my fiancé came to my family’s home and…” she swallowed hard, and her voice shook, “…he told me to pack my things and leave. He told me I didn’t live there anymore, and when I asked him why, he sneered at me. Everything my father had left him had become my fiance's property once he’d died, and he’d come to collect all of it…except for me,” she finished bitterly. Bog’s breath caught as the image she painted flashed in his mind. An even younger version of Marianne, pure and impossibly naïve, standing in the shadow of the man she loved as he tore her heart out and laughed. His hands trembled with anger at the thought of her former fiance's impudence, and he had the sudden and intense urge to wrap Marianne in his arms and hold her until she felt safe again, and to kiss away her tears. The thought made his heart flutter and his cheeks go red. What in God’s name was wrong with him? Did his depravity know no limits?

“I believe you know the rest,” she said stiffly; it sounded as though she were stretching where she sat. He imagined how she looked sitting on the carpet against his door, her dress no doubt rumpled and askew. He knew everything about the circumstances of their conversation was improper and untoward, but she was still there, and she was sitting on the ground in his hallway speaking with him through a door as though they were rambunctious children.

“Thank you for listening,” Marianne said, and it sounded as though she were standing to leave. Bog drew and released a large breath, then picked himself up off the carpet and opened the door. As the door creaked open, Marianne turned to look at him, and gave him a steady smile.

“I apologize for speak untruthfully about…about Lorna to you,” he stammered, and Marianne shook her head,

“It was not my place to know of it, sir,”

“But you know of it now,” he said, stepping toward her, taking her hand holding it gently in both of his. His words came out thick with raw emotion,

“Thank you,” he murmured, looking into her eyes, willing her to know the depths of his gratitude, “Thank you for remaining here, despite what I am,” Marianne’s gaze melted him as empathy pooled in her eyes. Her free hand, which had been resting against the waistband of her dress, rose slowly and tentatively to his cheek. His heart hammered in his chest as her hand hovered warmly just above his skin, not quite touching him,

“You are a _good man_ ,” she answered, and he could see in her eyes that she believed it, "It is easy to blame oneself for tragedy and misfortune when the world gives you no choice," she smiled sadly, "It is a fault I also possess, but that does not make it true," She was so wise for so young a person, it was hardly fair. After a moment, she withdrew her hand, brushing his cheek ever so lightly with her fingertips, and Bog shivered, though he couldn’t be certain whether the action was intentional or not. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed eleven times,

“I did not realize the lateness of the hour,” Marianne’s voice had retained some normalcy as she turned to glance out a nearby window at the darkened sky, “I will leave you to rest, sir,” she smiled and curtsied before him. As she rose he met her eyes again, and watched her face as he drew the hand he held up and kissed it sweetly, without pretense. Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of scarlet, and her gaze followed his back up as he straightened to his full height. He had not noticed before how pleasing it was to him that she had to tilt her head just that way in order to look at his face, and as he watched her disappear down the hallway, he prayed that their exchange had not been a dream.

 


	5. An Unexpected Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone new has arrived...BUT WHO?

Bog woke feeling surprisingly refreshed, the relief of having unburdened himself from the weight of his secrets still blissful and energizing. He drew a deep, soothing breath, and sat up with a grunt to stretch. He ran all ten of his long, slender fingers through his unruly hair, tousling away the sleep and smoothing it back as best he could.

“Greer?” he called, throwing back his eiderdown and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The air was crisp around him, raising goosebumps on his skin, filling his lungs and making him shiver. A moment later, a short, balding man in a dark green waistcoat entered Bog’s room, carrying an ornate tea tray and a hot scones,

“Yes, my Lord?” he asked, giving a short bow,

“Kindly draw me a bath and lay out my wardrobe for the day,”

“Yes, sir,”

“When you’re through, send word to Hamish that I’ll be needing two horses this afternoon,” he added nonchalantly. Greer’s eyebrows shot up, the surprise of his master’s request overwhelming his briefly before he steadied his expression,

“Yes, sir. Which horses would you prefer?” he inquired, setting the tray down upon the small breakfast table under one of the large windows. He drew back the bronze brocade curtains, and sunlight flooded the room. Bog sat down at the table to sip his tea, and stared down at the garden below him. Work on the garden had already begun for the day, and the sunlight warmed his face.

“Dragonfly and Lady,” he answered with a smile, sipping his tea.

“Right away, sir. Is there anything else?” giddy nervousness suddenly flitted through Bog’s stomach,

“Yes, please inform Miss Faedelle that I wish to speak with her in the ballroom after breakfast. That will be all, Greer, thank you,”

“Yes sir,” the valet replied, quietly exiting into the washroom. Bog’s mind vaguely registered the sound of rushing water in the bathtub in the other room as he continued to watch the garden, his thoughts on Marianne. He replayed their conversation over and over in his, mind, memorizing every word, every look, every touch. His lips tingled where they had pressed sweetly against her velvet skin, and he closed his eyes as he recalled the delicate brush of her finger against his cheek. Her sweetness and compassion was so much more than he deserved, and yet they were so similar in their encounters with life’s hardships, it gave him more hope than he could recall ever having.

*

Breakfast passed pleasantly as Marianne and Griselda spoke animatedly about the progress being made on the garden. They each expressed their wonderment at the fact that the weeds were already nearly cleared away, and they’d received word that the order they’d placed for the new fountains had been received. Bog watched and listened quietly, a smile of contentment loath to vacate his lips. Marianne was smiling and laughing as he had not seen her do before, and it seemed to him that, with the veil of tension removed from between them, the three were now far more at ease.

It had been a long few days, and balancing the manor’s exterior rehabilitation with the other necessary preparations for his Aunt’s arrival had taxed him nearly to exhaustion. Still, he remained present and agreeable, if for no other reason than to spend whatever time he could speaking with Marianne. He listened to her speak intently, and absorbed as much information as he could about her interests and opinions. He discovered, to his unmitigated delight, that she had a coarser sense of humor than it was perhaps appropriate for a young lady to have, but he found it exceedingly charming.

As the meal came to an end, Bog excused himself ahead of his companions, and shared a pleasantly private smile with Marianne when his mother was not paying attention. There was so much understanding in her gaze now, her eyes were bright, and warm, and they enchanted him more than ever. With a small nod, he made his way to the ballroom, where Marianne joined him only moments later.

“Good morning, sir,” she said as she approached, “Are you well?”

“Quite well, thank you,” he replied, taking in the sight of her. She wore a modest dress of dark navy, with short, puffed sleeves and intricate detailing from waist to hem. The dark fabric contrasted beautifully with her porcelain skin. A white crocheted shawl hung elegantly around her shoulders, and her hair was pinned in an intricate chignon. She turned her head to briefly glance at the garden, which was swiftly being revived by the skilled hands of the laborers, and Bog silently mourned the absence of the rebellious curl that once cascaded gracefully down her back. He did, however, admire the unobscured view of her slender neck and the alluring hollow of her throat, from which her petite shoulders bloomed elegantly.

As her eyes moved from the garden upward to the ancient portraits and tapestries that adorned the walls of the ballroom, she smiled wistfully, and Bog’s heart stuttered.

“This hall is so beautiful,” she remarked, her eyes continuing their journey around the room, “I’m sure it will look even lovelier filled with guests and dancing,”

“Does that mean you’ve changed your opinion of dancing?” Bog teased, hoping at the last second that he had offended her. To his relief she let out a soft chuckle, and cast her eyes downward, examining the extravagant marble tiling beneath their feet,

“I suppose that remains to be seen, sir,” she responded shyly, and Bog clutched his hands tightly behind his back to keep himself from gathering her into his arms and swirling her around ballroom. Instead, he attempted—and failed—to change the subject,

“My mother tells me she plans to hire the finest musicians in Glasgow, well-versed in all manner and styles of music. Surely and English tune or two,” his eyes suddenly brightened, “Are you at all familiar with the Viennese Waltz?” he inquired rather enthusiastically.

“I am not, sir,” Marianne replied with subtle curiosity. Bog’s face lit up, and without thinking, he offered his hand to her,

“May I show you?” He paused, taking a moment to absorb Marianne’s apprehensive expression before snatching it back quickly,

“Forgive me, I was not thinking, and I did not mean to be so insensitive,” he apologized.

“It is far from your doing, sir, please do not worry yourself,” she insisted, “It’s been a very, very long time since I was inclined to dance,” she said self-consciously. Bog, took her words as a polite rejection, and looked back toward the garden, prepared to shift the topic of conversation.

“Is it a very difficult dance, sir?” Marianne asked suddenly, and Bog turned with a start to see that she had poised herself attentively in front of him. His pulse came more swiftly as he realized she was asking for a demonstration.

Bog adored a good waltz. Until its introduction into the high society ballroom, he had found group dancing to be far too impersonal, and rarely partook. This was partially because he had never been preferential to large crowds, even as a young man; his unconventional appearance, as it had been described to him in those days, made him loath to have so many eyes trained on him at once.

He mainly avoided dancing because he had always found it to be far too intimate a deed to be performed in large groups. The gentle caress of another’s hand against his, the synchronized movement, the occasional promenade that required his hand to rest against his partner’s back; it was entirely too personal to be shared with a partner at random, and combined with the large number of participants and the ever-watching audience surrounding them, he had found it to be a very disagreeable experience.

At that moment, however, he and Marianne were quite alone, lacking even musicians and music to aid their venture. Despite said absence, Bog stepped back and began to explain as he twirled slowly and tentatively around the room with an invisible partner.

“It begins with a complete turn to the gentleman’s left,” he began, turning as he described the steps, “And then another to his right,” he spun again. Marianne watched with an amused, affectionate expression that was almost enough to make him trip over invisible feet, but he continued,

“At this point, depending on the house instructions, the gentlemen will either changes partners to their left in a single motion, or keep their partner with two,” he spun his pretend partner out to his left, his outstretched hand suddenly empty and waiting directly in front of Marianne. Bog paused, his hand hanging in the air, gazing warily into Marianne’s eyes. She stared back, flicking her gaze quickly between Bog’s eyes, searching for something deep within them. Bog detected the change in her resolve down to the second; she straightened herself with a surge of confidence, and reached out to take his hand.

Bog held her hand delicately, hardly daring to breathe as she neared him, allowing him to wrap his arm around her. He did so hesitantly, refusing to break eye contact for a moment in case her eyes hinted at any sort of discomfort. He rested his hand in the middle of her back, drawing her closer until they were mere inches apart. His words all but caught in his throat,

“Place your left hand,” he cleared his throat, “on my shoulder,” he instructed nervously. Marianne’s hand brushed against his arm as she lifted it to his shoulder, and Bog was sure she could feel his entire body trembling with both caution and anticipation. She was trusting him so completely, and he held her carefully, as though she may shatter in his arms. He could feel the warmth of their bodies hovering between them like a smoldering fire, and he almost didn’t dare move, lest it be lost.

“Remember,” he uttered softly, “To my left,” but as he began to count off quietly, Marianne suddenly shook her head with a sad smile, and his heart plummeted,

“I can’t,” she said sadly “I apologize, I…”

“I understand,” Bog replied, regret clear in his tone, but he smiled empathetically, “Please don’t apologize, you did nothing wrong,” he in no way blamed her for losing her nerve; he knew how badly her wounds stung if the lingering pain in his own scars was any indication. He could not, however, stop his heart from sinking has his stomach knotted painfully.

“But I do wish to,” she confessed, color painting her cheeks a charming pink, “I think…I would be very honored to dance with you, sir,” Bog felt a torrent of emotion rush through him, and his grip around her tightened ever so slightly,

“Honored is not the same as contented,” he pressed, his voice low and wary, “Would it please you? Make you happy?” He had never posed such an impertinent question, especially of a lady, but the desire to know her heart and mind was far too great to resist.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I dare say it would please me a great deal,” his eyes darted quickly from her eyes to her mouth, and back again, but he maintained his distance. He was determined to be the very best of whatever she needed him to be, the least of which was a cad who would prey upon her during her moment of vulnerability. He respectfully took a step away from her, gently releasing her hand.

“Perhaps one day I will have the privilege of a waltz with you, Miss Faedelle,” he gave her a soft, tender smile, “At your discretion, of course,” Marianne smiled, then let out a small giggle, rather out of place in their current conversation,

“I hope you will not find me brash, sir, but you seem rather conflicted as to how you address me,” Bog flushed red from cheek to ear as she teased him,

“Oh, well, ehm…is ‘Miss Faedelle’ not agreeable to you?” he stammered, glancing away,

“You refer to me by my first name when speaking with your mother,” she pointed out, “and I recall you using it to address me at least once,” she continued, a smile growing on her lips, as though the idea delighted her, “I would have you call me Marianne, sir, if that is agreeable to you,” Bog could not suppress his smile,

“Aye, if that is your desire, but in return I must insist you refer to me in an equally informal manner,” he chuckled, “You may call me Bog, if you wish,”

“Not Barnabas?” Marianne asked quizzically, and Bog wrinkled his nose with disgust,

“I beg you, no. My mother calls me Barnabas when she’s cross about something,” he laughed, and Marianne nodded with a smile,

“Bog then,” she said, the sound of his name on her lips sending a pleasant shiver down his spine.

“Marianne,” he acknowledged in return, eliciting an exceptionally sweet smile from his young guest as he placed a warm, lingering kiss upon her hand. _Not so very young_ , he reminded himself, recalling his mother’s words. Marianne was certainly not a child.

“I wonder if you would accompany me on a ride this afternoon? I’ve had horses prepared for us,” he inquired, flashing a grin, which Marianne mirrored,

“I would be delighted.”

* * *

 

The day of the ball drew nearer and nearer, and Marianne had begun to panic for want of a suitable costume. Griselda had long since divulged the change of plans, per Bog’s request, and Marianne had felt a certain amount of relief knowing that a masquerade meant she would be permitted to hide her face for the majority of the evening in question. All the same, the work on the garden had consumed the greater part of each day for the past few weeks, and before she knew it, she was left with only a few days to obtain something appropriate for the occasion.

She stood before her wardrobe, examining each of her gowns carefully. As Beautiful as they were, not one of them struck her as the correct choice. She found herself infinitely more interested in what Bog would be wearing. She could imagine that he found the opportunity to wear a mask to the event far more agreeable than Griselda’s original proposal. _It was likely his own decision_ , she mused, falling back onto her bed with a frustrated sigh.

She’d never been to a costume ball. What did one even wear to such a thing?

“Dawn would know, she sighed, thinking of her sister’s extraordinary taste in clothes, and her uncanny proclivity for sewing and dressmaking. She draped her arm across her forehead, trying to decided what to do, when she heard a soft knock at the door,

“Yes?” she called, sitting up straight, and Innis entered the parlor quietly,

“Good day, Miss Marianne,” she said with a short bow, “Lady McGregor sent me to inform you that there is a carriage approaching, and that we are all to prepare for its arrival,” This surprised Marianne a great deal. Was Griselda expecting someone? Was Bog?

“Who’s carriage is it?” she probed,

“According to my Lady, it appears to belong to Mrs. Silvia Plume,” she replied, and Marianne’s eyes went wide. _She’s early_! She thought, panicking slightly. The garden was so close to being finished, but the new fountains still hadn’t arrived, and many of the flowers she’d ordered were still in their pots.

“Thank you, Innis, I will make haste to the foyer,” she said, regaining a bit of her composure. It was not as though she had never met the woman, but she had so wished to surprise her dear friend with a tour of the revitalized landscaping. She supposed Silvia would not mind it being unfinished, kind as she was, and she pushed the worry from her mind as she smoothed her skirt and headed for the stairs.

*

Griselda was a flurry of excitement and chagrin, each emotion fighting for control as she rejoiced in the arrival of her sister while simultaneously cursing her name for not keeping her word.

“She is far too early! And without a letter, without a word! What are we to do?” she paced through the foyer, worrying as Marianne descended the grand staircase. Bog seemed to catch her movement in his peripheral, as his eyes suddenly flitted over to watch her as she moved. He looked like a man bewitched, his brilliant blue eyes focused entirely on her as she approached him. He offered his arm silently, and held a finger to his lips, indicating she should not announce herself. Marianne slipped her hand around his arm, and the two seemed to instantly relax against each other as they waited for Griselda to cease her ranting. Eventually, however, they had both had enough, and Marianne cleared her throat and bid Griselda hello, which stopped her in her tracks,

“My goodness, Marianne! Lovely to see you dear, have you heard? My dear sister Silvia is this very moment upon us. There now, you see?” she asked as she gestured out the door to the ornate carriage coming up the drive, “an entire four days ahead of schedule, what do you think of that!” she made a face of great displeasure at the carriage as it stopped.

“Mother, I do believe you will make my Aunt feel quite unwelcome if you continue to scowl so,” Bog quipped, and Marianne stifled a laugh.

“I’ll have none of your banter, young man, you who said she was so very punctual. Well, what have to say now?” she huffed over her shoulder.

“I say that Plum will nae be the least bit put out by having to wait an extra few days for the festivities. I implore you to calm yourself,” he remarked, his tone going flat. The carriage came to a halt near the front staircase as Marianne’s had weeks ago, and everyone seemed to be holding their breath as the driver climbed down to open the door.

Out of the carriage stepped a slender young woman of perhaps twenty who was all blond curls and blue eyes, and certainly not Silvia Plume. Marianne’s heart skipped a beat, then doubled in pace as her eyes brimmed with tears,

“ _Dawn!_ ” she exclaimed, quickly extracting her arm from Bog’s and rushing down the steps to pull her sister into a tight embrace. Dawn appeared to have been caught quite off guard,

“Marianne! Mari- _anne_!” she cried breathlessly as he sister squeezed her, “Release me this instant, I beg you!” Marianne obliged and Dawn straightened her dress before pulling her older sister into a more reasonable embrace.

“I’ve missed you so, my dearest sister,” Dawn beamed,

“Is Silvia with you?” Marianne asked, looking around Dawn into the carriage, finding it empty,

“She sent me ahead of her party in order to help oversee the remaining preparations, and to surprise you, of course!” Dawn replied excitedly, before turning her attention to Bog and his mother,

“I take it you are the proprietors of this house?” she asked bluntly, her skepticism still apparent, and Marianne discretely pinched her arm,

“Be kind,” Marianne whispered under her breath and Dawn sighed, putting on a smile,

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your generosity and hospitality. I can see Marianne is in excellent care!” Dawn was also gifted with words and turn of phrase, when the occasion called for it, and while Marianne was less than appreciative of her sister’s facetiousness, she ushered her forward and began introductions,

“Lady McGregor, B—Lord McGregor,” Marianne stumbled, choosing to maintain a sense of formality due to her sister’s trepidations, “This is my younger sister, Mrs. Dawn Everett,”

Griselda hurried down the steps to clasp Dawn’s hand in hers, fawning over her as she had with Marianne. It was clear, though, that Dawn was focused on sizing up Bog as she watched him warily where he stood, perched still on the landing above them.

As the four ventured inside, Marianne kept a keen eye on her sister, afraid she may have to keep her preoccupied at all times for as long as she could. A fraction of a second later, Marianne saw Dawn making a beeline for Bog as he strode in front of them, clearly planning to take him by surprise before he knew she was even upon him. Marianne moved quickly, weaving around Griselda and seizing her sister’s arm. A small sound of surprise escaped Dawn’s lips as she stumbled back a step, catching Bog’s attention and causing him to turn,

“Marianne? I—“

“Forgive me, sister, but I must speak to you at once, it is a matter of urgency,” Marianne blurted out, causing both Dawn and Bog to raise one eyebrow; Bog’s seemed more out of concern, while Dawn merely looked mildly annoyed,

“Is it, now?” Dawn replied, skepticism dripping from her words. Marianne quickly feigned helplessness and distress as she tugged her sister’s hands,

“Yes, please, you must help me prepare for the ball! I have nothing to wear, and so little time, I fear I may be forced to linger in the dining room the entire evening!” she wailed, catching Bog’s expression of amused bewilderment at her sudden change of character. He no doubt felt put upon by the arrival of her sister, but her act received the reaction she had sought; Dawn’s eyes went wide with concern and hard with determination,

“Truly, Marianne? I cannot have this, I _will_ not!” she turned on her heel and marched back toward the driveway, all but dragging Marianne behind her. She stopped in front of Griselda and smiled kindly,

“Please forgive me, my Lady, but I simply must take my sister into town this instant, lest she be forced to attend her own ball in rags,” she jested, and Griselda chuckled.

“I dare say that even rags would become her quite well,” Bog responded rashly, standing his ground as Dawn turned to look him square in the eye. His eyes flashed with something rather akin to fear as she stared him down, and Marianne stifled a laugh, sure that Dawn was the only person in the country who could intimidate the infamous Lord McGregor. What she didn’t see, as it was hidden from her view, was the change in Dawn’s expression. At first it was quizzical and unyielding, then it became softer and wide as she was overcome with realization and understanding, and finally it melted into a knowing smile that left Bog looking completely unnerved.

“Indeed they would, sir,” Dawn chirped, turning once again toward the door, “But I simply will not allow it,” she ushered Marianne through the door, ignoring her protests, leaving Bog to wonder if the young Mrs. Everett wasn’t even more frighteningly perceptive than Marianne herself.

 

 


	6. A Dress to Impress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a shorter chapter. Sister bonding!!

The ride into town was awkwardly quiet; Dawn sat silently wearing a shrewd, amused expression as her eyes bore into Marianne, who was looking everywhere but at her sister. It had been clear once they settled into their seats, facing each other, that Dawn’s whole countenance had changed. The perceptive squint of her eyes and her clever grin had rendered Marianne bashfully silent, and unable to look Dawn in the eye. Marianne knew that look, and that she must never underestimate it. Dawn’s interest had been piqued, and fascination would undoubtedly follow.

“Marianne,” Dawn spoke with a soft, discerning tone, the sort she employed when delving for secrets and gossip, letting her victim know she knew more than she let on. Marianne said nothing, and Dawn persisted,

“ _Marianne,_ ” she pressed, leaning forward, willing Marianne to face her. Still Marianne refused to oblige,

“Maria-anne,” Dawn sang, teasing her. Finally, Marianne let out a long breath and locked eyes with her precocious young sister.

“Yes?” she blinked, trying her best to feign innocence,

“Have you any news to share with me?” Dawn asked mischievously, fighting hard to keep control of the glittering smile that was bursting forth,

“I cannot imagine what would give you such an idea,” Marianne replied, struggling to hold her gaze steady, “Though I suppose, if you must know, the garden is no yet complete. I expect you already knew—“

“You are far too coy, sister,” Dawn asserted, clearly becoming frustrated. Marianne gave he a questioning look, but Dawn immediately supplied her with clarity,

“Exactly how long did you plan to keep secret your and Lord McGregor’s courtship?” she asked bluntly, eliciting a revealing look of shock from her older sister, “And without so much a letter requesting my permission to pursue you, how impertinent,” she huffed. Marianne stared, mouth slightly agape and grasping for the words to defend herself,

“ _Courtship_? I’m quite sure I don’t…I…” she faltered, for where was the falsehood in Dawn’s words? Bog had been more than courteous over the past few weeks; he had been attentive, obliging, and, on one or two occasions, disarmingly affectionate. Their interlude in the ballroom replayed dreamily in her head, and she lost herself in it for one blissful moment. He had held her so delicately, only touching her where required and proper, and in such a way that made her heart ache for the tender, wounded man of whom she had become so fond. Dawn watched her with one eyebrow raised in a smirk,

“As though you could have kept such a thing from me,” she giggled as Marianne regained her composure, smiling sheepishly as she confessed,

“I fear I had not yet revealed it to myself, in so many words,” she replied shyly, “It is so unlike my previous…” she swallowed, “…experience,”

“Well, then, let us not dwell on  _that_ ,” Dawn waved her hand out the window, sweeping the painful memory out into the dirt of the road to be trampled as they passed. She snatched up Marianne’s hands and held them tightly, scooting closer,

“How do you like him?” she asked earnestly, suddenly serious,

“Dawn,” Marianne retorted, leveling a stern glare at her sister, “please do not speak of him as though he were a new bonnet,” she chided,

“I do not! You have my word, sister, I do not, but if I am to give him my blessing, I must know if he is the sort of man we…expected?” She hinted warily, and Marianne’s smile fell,

“Dawn, I wish you would not mention such egregious falsehoods. Believe me when I say that a crueler lie has never been told,” Dawn’s eyes lit up with tentative relief,

“So there is no truth to the rumors?”

“Not in the slightest,” Marianne assured her. Dawn sat back in her seat, folding her arms and giving Marianne a concentrated, quizzical look,

“How can you be sure?” She prodded, and Marianne shifted uncomfortably in her seat,

“I mistakenly overheard a private exchange on the subject between Lord McGregor and his mother,” she replied, her voice lowering, “He is a widower, Dawn, of the most ill-fated circumstance,”

“This I know already, sister. I implore you to give me the truest understanding of his hardships that I may know for certain that no harm will come to you at his hand,” Dawn insisted. Marianne drew and released a long breath,

“I cannot reveal it, sister, it is not my place. I pray you will accept my word as sufficient proof until you discover your own,” she pleaded. Dawn’s face slowly became more and more distorted with frustration and conflict as she fought with herself over the matter. At last, she released a large sigh,

“Very well, if you say he is good, then I am inclined to believe it. However,” she added, raising a finger, “I refuse to impart my blessing until he has proven his merit as a gentleman to _me_ ,” she stated with firm finality, and Marianne smiled softly. It was so wonderful to see her sister again, after so many years, and she did not wish to spend their time together quarrelling.

*

The ride to town took an hour or so, and the two sisters stretched inconspicuously before exiting Silvia’s carriage. It was mid day, and the town was bustling, despite the threat of rain looming in the clouds above. Dawn looked around, and immediately skipped over to the window of a textile shop with, and Marianne rolled her eyes,

“I admire your ambition, Dawn, but you know as well as I that we have not the time to make a an entire gown,”

“Yes, I know, but would it not be lovely? Oh Marianne, just look at that lace!” she squealed, pointing to a bolt of intricate ivory flowers and foliage. It was indeed lovely, but Marianne folded her arm through Dawn’s, and tugged her toward the nearest dress shop.

Dawn picked through their selection with hew brows furrowed, occasionally holding up a sleeve to closer examine the brocade, the moving on, and Marianne waited patiently. When Dawn had finished inspecting what Marianne expected to be every dress in the shop, she returned with two gowns in her arms, one a muted sky blue, and the other a dusty rose pink. Dawn thrust the pink one into Marianne’s arms and motioned for her to admire it.

It was beautiful and sweet, with a woven, off-the-shoulder neckline and a gathered lace trim. The bodice was simple, and the skirt cascaded down from the waist in large, flowing pleats. The fabric was smooth to the touch, and the delicate color was and charming, reminding Marianne of the Irish primroses she’d ordered for the garden at Windcrest.

“How lovely,” she breathed, and Dawn beamed back at her,

“I just knew you’d love it, but then, I do have impeccable taste,” she said cheekily, and Marianne had to chuckle at her sister’s mock pretension.

They approached the counter, and Dawn talked cheerily with the shop worker as Marianne turned her attention the people passing outside the shop’s front windows. She watched absentmindedly, hardly focusing on anything in particular, until her eyes caught sight of and couple walking arm in arm on the opposite side of the small square. They stopped to look into the window of the textile shop, as Dawn had, and she could see the young woman admiring the very same bolt of lace. Dawn really did have an excellent sense of fashion, something she’d had to twist Marianne’s arm over when they were young.

The woman outside appeared to be thoroughly taken with the lace, and seemed to be trying to convince the gentleman to purchase it. He made a motion suggesting that they had somewhere else to be, but would return for it, and they turned to cross the square to the left of the dress shop, giving Marianne a clear view of his face.

Her breath caught in her chest, and her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She felt panic and sadness overtake her, but she stood as still as she could, using every ounce of her strength not to double over, though she couldn’t keep herself from shaking.

“Roland,” she whispered. Dawn studied her with confused concern, then followed Marianne’s gaze out the window to the couple walking toward the shop.

“What on God’s green earth…how _dare_ he,” she snapped, but Marianne looked down sadly, shaking her head,

“Do not be rash, sister,” she warned, sensing Dawn was about to pounce,

“I will _not_ stand idly by whilst that pig of a man does as he pleases. And what on earth could he be doing _here_?” she glared out the window as the couple passed. The shop keeper gave them both a disapproving look, and Marianne straightened up, inhaling a shaking breath,

“It seems he will be buying that fine lace you had your eye on,” he words were stiff and forced, “such a pity,”

“Oh no he will not,” Dawn countered, her eyes bright with determination, “I think your gown could use a little something extra, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked, eyeing Marianne, who shushed her when the shop keeper seemed to take offense to the sentiment. Dawn ignored her, and looped her arm through Marianne’s as she headed for the door. She poked her head out, making sure that the couple was no longer in sight, then pulled Marianne out into the square with her,

“Come along,” she said, her tone still full of fervor, “We are going to buy that lace,”

*

Dawn was a wonder; a genius of the needle and enchanter of the thread, able to create a masterpiece with naught but her imagination and a pair of scissors. Marianne watched, turned, and held still for pinning as she was bid, and in the course of one evening, Dawn had transformed Marianne’s simple gown into a whimsical, ethereal masterpiece. After purchasing the lace, she’d gone back to the dress shop and convinced the shop keeper to sell her the remaining fabric that had been used to make Marianne’s gown, and with it, she’d created several bows that she sewn in even placement around the skirt, just below the midpoint. From the bows, she’d elegantly draped and tacked the lace, which fell just above the dress’ hem.

Dawn pinned and gathered the remaining lace to the back of the bodice, and attached the free ends to the satin cuffs she’d fashioned for Marianne’s wrists,

“What is the point of that?” Marianne asked lethargically as Dawn pinned the cuffs on her wrists,

“It is a surprise, sister,” Dawn grinned, “go, stand at the mirror and lift your arms, you will see,” Marianne followed her sister’s instructions, turning her back to the mirror and looking over her shoulder for a better view. She raised her arms out to her sides, and gasped in awe as the lace fell free from itself, and hung from her arms and back in the shape of delicate butterfly wings.

“Oh, Dawn,” Marianne whispered, and Dawn took one of her sister’s hands, patting it gently,

“Now you do not have to dance at the ball, you can fly instead,” she smiled sweetly. Marianne’s heart overflowed with affection for her beloved sister who knew her so well,

“Thank you, they’re exquisite,” she said with a smile. Dawn bid her take off the gown so she could finish the final details, when there was a knock at the parlor door,

“Yes?” Marianne called,

“It is Innis, Miss Marianne,” Innis replied, and Marianne welcomed her,

“Good evening, Innis, are you well?”

“Very well, thank you Miss,”

“I am glad to hear it. Please let me introduce my younger sister, Mrs. Dawn Everett,” Marianne motioned behind her, and Innis Curtsied,

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Everett,” she said politely, turning back to Marianne, “Forgive the intrusion, Miss, but Lord McGregor and my Lady wish to inquire as to whether or not the two of you will be joining them for dinner,” Marianne and Dawn turned in unison toward the grandfather clock near the door,

“Good heavens, is that the time? I’m afraid we’ve been quite distracted!” Dawn said, ushering Marianne into her bedroom, “Change for dinner, sister, and I will apologize for our tardiness,” Dawn smoothed her skirt, shooing Innis out the door in front of her,

“Wait,” Marianne said quickly, and both women paused. She struggled for a moment, but managed to smile at Innis,

“Thank you, we will join them presently,” she said, and Innis bowed and left. When the door closed behind her, Dawn turned to face Marianne,

“I sincerely hope your plan is not to hide yourself away from everyone,” she stated matter-of-factly, and Marianne shook her head,

“No, of course not, but…” she sank down onto the loveseat, and Dawn squeezed herself in beside her,

“Are you well, Marianne?” she asked, concern creasing her forehead,

“Dawn…I do not know how I am supposed to let a man love me…when I am so afraid of loving him in return,” she confessed, staring at the carpet. Dawn’s voice was low and compassionate,

“Do you love him, Marianne?” she asked, and Marianne shook her head quickly, stifling a frustrated laugh,

“I cannot be certain, our acquaintance has been so short, and it is so different from what I felt for Roland,” she spat his name, and Dawn gave her a gentle smile,

“Tell me,” she urged, and Marianne sighed,

“He is…kind, and generous, and compassionate,” she began, “Everything Roland was not. He is courteous, and gentile, and is an excellent conversationalist. He can also be foul tempered and disagreeable, though I see that side of him so little now,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “He is certainly rough around the edges, but it is nothing I would fault him for, for I dare say it is a state which has been quite mercilessly forced upon him by those who know no better. He is lovely company, and a good man,” she recalled their intimate conversation, and the day in the ballroom, and she spoke without thought, “and a lovely dancer,”

That caught Dawn’s attention, knowing as well as she did that her older sister did _not_ partake in the activity,

“Do you mean to say that you _danced_ with him?” she asked incredulously. Marianne blushed warmly,

“No, I fear I could not summon the courage,” she chuckled, omitting from her story how sweetly Bog had held her in that instant, “But I often find myself wishing that I had,” she admitted, and Dawn’s face glowed with elation and relief,

“Marianne,” she said, leaving the love seat to sit on her knees in front of her sister, “You are not as fragile as you think. I know you are afraid, but listen to yourself; you _trust_ him, can you not see that?” Marianne paused and considered it,

“Of…of course I trust him. I could not live here if I didn’t,” she replied, and Dawn shook her head,

“What I mean to say is that you trust him in here,” she put a hand over her heart, and Marianne knew in an instant that she was right. Bog had captivated her, heart and mind, and though she did not believe herself ready to admit it, she could see that she was undoubtedly on the way to being very much in love with him.


	7. A long sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow, it's been too long! I'm so sorry for the delay, life AFK has been kind of hectic. I was FINALLY able to wrap my head around this chapter, I hope you all enjoy it!! Also, a huge thank you to everyone who subscribes/bookmarks/comments/leaves kudos. You guys keep me--and this fic--going!! <3 <3

Bog was smitten, and he knew it. Despite his past, his guilt, and the cracks in his heart, he could feel his wounds healing, the raw edges easing together, laced tightly by the warmth of Marianne’s smile, and the gentle affection in her eyes. It was still difficult to quell the twisting knot of panic that often sat uncomfortably in his stomach when he imagined making his sentiments known to her, and he all but doubled over at the thought of her—very likely—rejection, but more and more often these were accompanied by the impulsive urge to simply get it over with, to declare his affections and beg her to marry him.

He knew he was more than a few years older than her, and that such an alliance between the two of them would likely carry unpleasant implications, given the state of his reputation. He could not possibly have cared less about her lack of connections—her sister had married well, and Plum was nothing if not privilege-born and respectable—and her education and proficiency so far exceeded his expectations that he considered her to be one of the most accomplished women he had ever known—not that he knew many women, but that was beside the point.

He sat quietly in his study, a book on Floriculture resting page-down on his knee, quite forgotten as he stared out the window at the setting sun. It cast a warm, ethereal glow on the garden, which was mere days away from completion, and he turned his attention to the greenhouse, glittering brilliantly in the far corner. It had cleaned up beautifully, and sat vacant, as he had bid. It had been his only request to Marianne in regards to the garden, and though she had wondered openly at his intentions, he had given her a teasing smile and reminded her that patience was a virtue. She had laughed, a pleasant, musical sound that warmed him and made his chest swell with pride, knowing he had elicited such a reaction. He had never considered himself to be particularly humorous, but he could certainly be charming, when the occasion called for it, and Marianne was nothing short of a gala—she deserved to be celebrated.

Marianne and Mrs. Everett had returned at nearly four, and had spent the remainder of the evening tucked away within Marianne’s private parlor. Even as the bell was rung for dinner, neither young woman emerged. Bog clasped his hands together anxiously at the dinner table as he waited, unaware of his mother’s small, perceptive smirk,

“Perhaps one of them has taken ill?” she offered, trying to quell Bog’s apprehension.

“Surely the other would have descended to inform us by now,” Bog replied quickly, his attention focused on the vacant staircase beyond the dining room entryway. After a moment, there was movement near the banister, and his eyes lit up for a moment, until he saw that it was only Marianne’s lady’s maid. All the same, he jumped at the opportunity,

“Greer,” he turned to his valet, “Please have Innis visit our lady guests and inquire after their attendance this evening,” he instructed, and Greer bowed before exiting the room. A few short moments later, Innis returned,

“Miss Marianne and Mrs. Everett shall be along shortly,” she reported, and Bog excused her, feeling slightly relieved. Twenty or so minutes after  _that_ , the two women finally appeared, and Bog let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He had almost begun to fear one of the ladies  _had_  fallen ill—damn his mother for putting the thought in his head. They both looked to be in perfect health, save for Marianne’s crestfallen expression. She offered him a small smile as she took her place at the table, and said little while the Mrs. Everett and his mother chatted away about gowns and guest lists and his aunt’s imminent arrival.

Her silence worried him—where was her smile? Her educated wit and friendly banter? Something was most certainly wrong, he decided with a frown. Marianne chose that moment to glance up at him, only to catch him all but scowling in her direction. His mind cleared as a look of surprised hurt flashed across her face. She looked down before his look of dismay could reach her, and Bog’s stomach dropped as she quietly excused herself from the table.  _Oh, well done you tactless, insensitive old—_ His thoughts her abruptly cut off as Marianne headed in an unexpected direction. His stomach tightened as he stood to watch her go, and his heart beat chaotically as she approached the pianoforte.

Guilt overtook him as he realized that her intent was to assuage him as she had once before, to soothe his frustrations with her music, as though _he_ were the one out of sorts this evening. She was so selfless, putting him before herself as no one but his mother ever had, and he sucked in a breath as he quickly excused himself. Griselda smiled knowingly at Dawn as Bog walked briskly toward the drawing room.

Marianne was already beside the instrument, her arm outstretched, finger preparing to caress the keys,

“Wait, please,” he said as he reached Marianne, taking her hand and kissing it sweetly before looking her in the eye. He was alarmed by the gloominess there, and though she had tried to conceal it behind a smile, it was something that he could not ignore when he looked at her—a detail blatantly out of place, and even more obvious upon closer observation. Marianne seemed to have been caught off guard by his protestation, and scrambled to find a response,

“Sir?” she asked, and he smiled gently, lowering his voice so that the prying eyes and ears in the dining room could not hear,

“Now, lass, none of that. We have an agreement, remember?” he whispered, closing his large hands over hers lightly. Marianne nodded in response, her eyes shining a bit brighter, “Now, please,” he continued to speak quietly as he turned her to his left, trading places with her, and seated himself on the piano bench. He was determined to take care of her as she had him, to banish he sadness from her mind, and he held her gaze, wishing desperately to see her usual spark return as he gave her the only gift he felt worthy of offering, “Allow me, Marianne,”

* * *

 

Marianne’s whole body tingled as Bog slid is hands over and away from hers, tickling her palm and leaving trails of warmth where they touched. Bog rolled his wrists and stretched his hands for a few moments, and Marianne inhaled slowly as she watched him place his long, slender fingers just above the ivory keys, letting them hover there. Bog closed his eyes and took a long breath, then released it as his fingers began to fly over the keys.

Marianne watched and listened in amazement as Bog played a piece that was sweet and hopeful, but also spoke of longing and struggle. Her chest ached at the raw emotion Bog infused into the music, each phrase a plea for happiness, every note a promise of affection. Marianne’s heart swelled as she watched him, taking in every movement his body made; the way his brow knit with passion during certain passages, the emotional, rhythmic sway of his upper body, perfectly mirroring the flow of the melody. He was breathtaking.

Somewhere in the back of her mind it occurred to her that he polite thing to do would be to retire to the couch and listen quietly from a proper distance, but she could not bear to move away. The music vibrated through her, and she felt as though she were floating in it, held aloft by its sweetness, and she closed her eyes, allowing herself to be carried. As the piece came to a close, the soft, slow tinkling of the soprano keys made her stomach flutter. The music faded, and she opened her eyes to find Bog looking at her expectantly, searching her expression.

Every emotion that had swam within her during his performance suddenly and unexpectedly burst forth. She smiled as a sound that was both a sob and a laugh escaped her lips, and she clutched one hand to her chest as she drew several unsteady breaths. She tried desperately to calm herself, aware that her sister and Griselda had wandered into the room, and three pairs of eyes studied her with concern,

“Please forgive me,” she said breathlessly, trying her best to focus through the barrage of emotions tearing through her. Bog stood, clearly concerned, and reached out to steady her as she swayed slightly where she stood. She had never felt anything so intensely, so deep in the heart of her soul that it shook her to her core, and made her feel as though she was going to burst from her skin in every direction at once. It was dizzying, and it completely disarmed her,

“Marianne,” Bog’s voice was calm and soothing beside her, and the feel of his hand on the small of her back helped very little to pull her from her confusion, “Are you ill?” 

“I’ll escort her upstairs, please excuse us,” Dawn said, suppressing a grin as she took Marianne’s hand and led her from the parlor.

*

Once the two ladies had returned to Marianne’s room, Dawn dropped her sister's arm and crossed the room. She lowered herself onto the love seat and stared, one eyebrow raised, at Marianne,

“Are you well, sister?” she asked flatly, and Marianne blushed a deep crimson,

“No, I don’t believe I am,” she laughed nervously, and Dawn smiled involuntarily at Marianne’s pellucidity,

“I dare say you look far better than I have ever seen you,” she teased, and Marianne tossed a pillow at her from across the room as she flopped down onto her bed,

“Leave me to my suffering, I beg you,” she said with a laugh, and Dawn rose from the love seat, sitting herself beside Marianne on the bed,

“In all seriousness, sister, I pray you will tell me what it is that ails you,” she brushed Marianne’s hair back from her forehead and gave her a worried look. Marianne stared wistfully at the ceiling, allowing herself a moment to formulate an answer.

She had known so little of love, and even less of its truest form that it was difficult to define it with words alone. The one aspect of this experience that was so quintessentially different was how cherished Marianne felt whenever Bog so much as looked at her. The way his brogue caressed her name when he spoke it sent her heart fluttering, and his timid affection was so endearing and candid that she was unable to deny the truth,

“I...I think…” she whispered, and Dawn listened intently, “…I think I—“ Marianne was interrupted by a soft knock on her door, and she swallowed her words as she sat up and smoothed the wrinkles in her dress,

“Yes?” she called, and Bog’s soft reply sent a pleasant shiver through her chest,

“May I come in?”

Dawn moved back to the love seat and busied herself with some sewing as Marianne welcomed Bog to join them.,

“Good evening,” He bowed to them both, and immediately turned his concerned gaze to Marianne,

“How are you feeling?” he inquired tenderly, and Marianne was forced to bite her lip to keep from smiling,

“I am better now, thank you,” she replied, and Bog’s shoulders relaxed visibly as he allowed himself a relieved grin, 

“I am glad to hear it,” he breathed, and glanced over her shoulder at Dawn, “May I have a moment?” he asked Marianne quietly, and Dawn’s eyes snapped up to his face, taking in his nervous expression. He cleared his throat, “I thought we might take a turn in the garden. The sun has not yet set, and I would very much like to discuss something with you,” he clasped his hands behind his back, as Marianne knew he did when he was anxious, and she, too, turned to look at Dawn, who was watching them both intently,

“If my sister can bear to be without me for a time,’ she grinned, and Dawn smiled sweetly and nodded, “Then I will happily oblige,” she turned back to Bog and looked up into the deep blue that gazed back. She could lose herself in that deep ocean of affection, she had no doubt.

* * *

 

 Bog tentatively offered his arm to Marianne, and the gentle touch of her hand left tingles where it rested. He glanced back at Mrs. Everett as they left the room, and the sweet smile she had given Marianne had morphed into a coy, perceptive grin. He could feel her eyes following them as he and Marianne disappeared from view.

They strolled in amiable silence, which Bog did not attempt to break until they were approaching the doors to the ballroom. He paused, having completely forgotten that they would have to pass through the space in order to reach the garden, and glanced between Marianne and the door,

“Is anything wrong?” Marianne asked, caching his gaze as it flitted back to her face. He shook his head quickly and opened the door, holding it ajar for her,

“No’ wrong, per say,” he replied candidly, and it was true that there had been absolutely nothing erroneous about their previous interlude within he hall, no act or air of impropriety.  _Perhaps that isnae_ entirely _true_ , he admitted to himself; the moment they’d shared, those few, brief seconds that she’d allowed him to hold her had set his heart ablaze, and he burned for her now, beyond quantification.

They entered the room and he swallowed, his breath catching as he surveyed the ballroom. His mother—or rather, he himself—had spared no expense, a fact reflected in the ornate décor now adorning the walls. Lavish banners and vases, shining candelabras, and flowing white tablecloths draped elegantly over mahogany tabletops, set aglow by the afternoon sunlight seeping through the windows. The flowers, he knew, would arrive the morning of the ball to avoid letting them wilt before the festivities began.

He glanced to his left and saw Marianne mirroring his look of disbelief and awe,

“How beautiful,” she said quietly, examining their surroundings. _Aye_ he thought, fighting the urge to respond out loud as he gazed at her, knowing full well that he would not be referring to the state of the hall. They had come to pause in the center of the ballroom as they admired it, and after a moment of silence, Marianne turned to look up at him,

“What is it that you wish to discuss with me, Bog?” she asked, and Bog’s heart skipped a beat. It was the first time she had ever spoken his preferred name while conversing with him—possibly ever, for all he knew—and the sound of it sent a wave of desire rushing over him, swirling through his chest, down through his abdomen, and then lower than was strictly appropriate. Clearing his throat, suddenly nervous, he withdrew himself from her grasp, and clutched his hands tightly behind his back—her proximity was incredibly distracting. He took a step away from her, deeper into the room, as though in contemplation,

“I simply wished to inquire after your day in town. You seemed out of spirits at dinner,” he answered, turning to face her again, “Is anything the matter?”

“I am grateful for your concern,” Marianne smiled, but looked down, folding her arms in front of her, “But I assure you, it is nothing that you need worry yourself about,” Bog pursed his lips in a frown, seeing through her bluff.

“Are you certain?”

“Quite certain, thank you,” she replied flatly. Bog drew and exhaled a steady breath before moving back toward her,

“I would hope,” he said as he approached her, “that as my dear friend, you would be candid with me, when appropriate,” their difference in height once again delighted him as he came to halt, standing before her. She met his gaze after a moment, and he struggled to keep his breathing even. She was so close, closer than a causal conversation warranted; he could reach out and caress her face if he wished to,

“I do endeavor to,” she replied softly, suddenly bashful. Bog’s heart hammered in his chest,

“If I may offer you my opinion,”

 "You may,” she uttered, and Bog’s hands moved before he could stop them. He extended them to her, as though he were offering her tribute; palms facing skyward, fingers relaxed, but open. He counted five heartbeats between his gesture and her response, and on the sixth, she slowly unfolded her arms and placed her hands in his. He held them, small and warm and soft, and lightly brushed the back of her hands with his thumbs. He saw Marianne flush as their gazes met again, and he spoke with fervor,

“I firmly believe that the cause of your distress is a topic that can be deemed appropriate,” he asserted, “I wish only to make— _see_ you happy,” he fumbled, and Marianne watched him with wide, wary eyes He hoped he had not pushed too hard to convince her to confide in him, delicate as the subject was. He let her remove her hands from his, though their absence pained him, and he watched her intently as she clasped them tightly in front of her, and drew a shaking breath.

* * *

 

“I believe we have spoken about the gentleman I was engaged to,” Marianne began, lacing her fingers tightly to keep her hands from shaking as she spoke.

“Aye,” Bog replied, an edge creeping into his tone, “Have you had word from him?” Marianne paused for a moment before speaking,

“I saw him this afternoon,” she answered softly, unsure of how Bog would react.

“What?” was all he managed.

“He was visiting the town with a lady I did not recognize,” she chuckled sadly, “they were buying lace,” Bog felt anger cut through him as he absorbed her words. Of all places, why would this man be so close to Windcrest? Had he followed Marianne? Had she…called him there? His mind raced, and he spoke through clenched teeth,

“Does he know you are a guest here?”

“I can’t imagine why he would have brought along a lady if he was here for me,” she replied, “On second thought, perhaps I can,” She had a point, and it eased his ire, but he remained guarded,

“You did not summon him?” He asked, and her head snapped up, her eyes filling with fire,

“I did no such thing, nor will I ever” she declared firmly, “The day I _choose_ to speak to him, or even look upon his sordid face, will never come, I assure you,” her words rang out with determination, but as her brow furrowed she felt a rogue tear leave a cold, wet trail down her cheek. She flushed furiously, mortified that her body had betrayed her, but before she could reach up and wipe it away, Bogs hands were there, caressing her face. He was nearer than he had ever been, and she felt a second tear escape. Bog brushed them away with his thumbs as he tilted her head back. Marianne gazed up at him wide-eyed as he held her, all notions of demureness gone.

The room had fallen silent as they stared at one another, only inches apart, and Marianne’s jumbled thoughts and confusions snapped into focus. Roland was nothing, _nothing_ compared to this, to Bog. Her heart beat for the man before her with an intensity that she had not thought possible, and she leaned against him, wishing for nothing else but his lips pressed against hers.

At the last possible moment, however, she saw something change in Bog’s eyes. His expression became pained and fearful, and he drew away from her.

“I pray you will forgive me,” he mumbled, shaking, “Here you are, made vulnerable by the pain of betrayal, and I…how dare I,” he said breathlessly, turning to leave. Marianne forced her mind to clear as she grasped what had just transpired between them, and after a moment, she hurried after him,

“Bog wait, please,” she called, catching his hand as he strode away. He froze, and she held him tightly, waiting for him to respond. The seconds ticked by sluggishly, and at length, he hesitantly met her gaze, 

“I will not allow anyone to take advantage of you, Marianne…including myself. I am a foolish old man who desires too much, and has too little to offer in return,” he wallowed, and Marianne pursed her lips, 

"I cannot pretend to know your meaning, sir. Speak plainly, I beg you,” she responded determinedly, 

“I cannot. I refuse to act selfishly where you are concerned,” he answered frankly, “I will not expose you to such derision and sorrow,” 

“What causes me sorrow is for me to determine,” she retorted, letting her tone bite at him, “and I can promise you that you have not taken a single advantage that I did not allow you to take,”

“But what have I to give you in exchange?” he asked sadly, “How am I to care for you if I have nothing for you but the promise of seclusion and a tainted reputation? I am not a well-liked man, Marianne, as you are well aware, and I would not have you share in my travail if such a thing can be avoided. I…have no right to love you,” he concluded. Marianne considered this. She was more than cognizant of the town’s dislike of her host, and she knew their bitterness would extend to her at some point during her stay, but…wait. _Wait_ she balked, processing his words.

* * *

 

Bog’s heart all but stopped in his chest as he realized what he had said. It crossed his mind to flee once more, but he knew in his heart that there was no where he could go to escape this. He had already uttered the words, and he resigned himself to staying put and awaiting her answer. She didn’t look even so much as surprised for a few, brief seconds, and then, like a fire igniting, her eyes flashed with understanding, and she stared at him wordlessly. Somehow he willed himself not to look away from her; if she planned to break his heart, she would have to look him in the eye as she delivered the shattered pieces to him.

After a few moments, she suddenly stepped toward him, and his entire body tensed. He closed his eyes as she approached him, waiting for her to scream, or possibly slap him. What if she said nothing at all, and simply left him? His fears rang loudly in his head as he waited, until the gentle touch of her hands to his face caused his eyes to fly open. She held him in the same fashion he had held her only minutes before, and looked into his eyes calmly,

“Bog?” she whispered, 

“Marianne,” he breathed, unable to resist leaning into her touch, 

“ _Do_ you...love me?” she asked, and Bog sighed in defeat. There was little point in trying to negate the truth now. He reached up and brushed his hand along her cheek, slipping his fingers back into her soft brown hair,

“Aye,” he breathed, drawing nearer to her until her back glanced off of the wall behind her, and she was all but flush against him. He rested his free hand against the wall beside her, all ceremony and tradition elapsed. He hung his head, finding it difficult to look at her, and the hands that had caressed his face now rested on his shoulders “I love you, so much so that it is difficult to bear, at times. It is a fool’s errand, I know—“

“You do _not_ know,” Marianne interrupted in a hushed tone. Her entire body trembled as his words sunk in, and happiness surged through her like an electric shock. She felt as though she might lift off of the ground and fly away, and her heart beat wildly. Surely, _surely_  he could not truly be convinced that she was indifferent toward him; the thought made her stomach tighten, 

“Have I truly given you no reason to hope? Have I been cold toward you?” she asked earnestly, and Bog shook his head quickly, careful not to jostle hers as their foreheads touched, 

“I did not wish to make you in any way uncomfortable with such… _advances_ ,” he admitted sheepishly, “and yet I have shown you far less regard, I fear,”

“You have your moments,” she teased, a small smile painting her lips. He looked up into her eyes, which were so close he could see his own reflection within them, and she stared back into the blue depths of the sea, crystal clear in the candlelight. The sun had set behind the wall, and the sky was fading from pink to grey as night fell. Marianne chuckled, 

“The sun is gone. I fear we will not have our turn about the garden this evening,” 

“Pity,” 

“Yes,” she mused, studying his expression. The pain that had creased his brow had disappeared, and in his eyes she saw unabated longing underneath his distress,

“I beg you,” he choked, “Donnae trifle with me, I cannae bear it,” his brogue was thick with passion as he spoke, his warm breath tickling her lips,

“I would never,” she promised him fervently, watching him with a half-lidded gaze as he leaned down and closed the small space between them.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, am I right?  
> In addition, for those of you who are interested, here is a link to the piece of music I used for reference in this chapter.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5DZTkHkWJCI&index=3&list=FLfhISfbB_1VrDjV295yn4QA


	8. A Kiss and a Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, bear with me! The ball is almost upon us!!

_I love you_ … _I love you…_

The sentiment replayed over and over in Bog’s mind as he leaned down and gently pressed his lips against Marianne’s. He felt her grip the fabric of his waistcoat where her hands rested on his shoulders as they touched, quietly encouraging him as he moved his right hand from her cheek to her waist, pulling her against him. It was chaste, and soft, and somewhere in the thick fog of his mind he wondered if she had ever been kissed before. She had been engaged, not married, so while he had no doubt that her virtue was intact, he wrestled with the possibility that her lips had known another. His gut twisted at the thought, but Marianne’s hand reached up absentmindedly to cup his cheek, and the small sigh that followed was more than enough to banish the though from his mind. His temper had no power over him while she was wrapped in his embrace.

He trained his focus on Marianne’s breathing, and the subtle movements of her body. Her entire frame was trembling, and he held her closer in an attempt to calm her; he wanted her to feel safe with him, whether she was in his arms or on the other side of the estate. A small, rather unexpected noise of pleasure bubbled up from her chest and vibrated into him, causing him to inadvertently slide his tongue lightly against her lips. She shivered in response, and parted her lips a tad, allowing the kiss to deepen ever so slightly.

He did not ask any more of her; there was no need. Her kiss was a treasure, a rare, intangible fortune of happiness that he had somehow been lucky enough receive, and his heart soared with ecstasy and gratitude. He would never in a million lifetimes know what he had achieved to deserve her, but he was determined to spend those lifetimes proving to her that he was worthy.

He drew back reluctantly to look at her, and it pleased him to no end how flushed her cheeks had become, and the dazed, almost impious look she gave him filled him with such desire that he nearly reached for her again. The sound of approaching footsteps, however, had him stepping back from her, and he gestured for her to move away from the wall.

Greer appeared in the doorway, and he gave a swift bow as they joined him,

“Forgive the interruption, my Lord, Miss Marianne, but a late carriage has arrived from town,” he stated.

“At this hour?” Bog replied, irritation furrowing his brow, “Who is it that sees to call upon us without notice?”

“It is a gentleman,” Greer replied, and added, matter-of-factly, “I understand he is an acquaintance of yours, Miss,” he bowed again and left the ballroom. The air around Bog and Marianne felt colder as the news sank in, and Bog’s chest tightened as he scowled at the marble flooring. He hated himself for being unable to avoid jumping to the worst possible conclusion, but the coincidence could not be ignored.

“Wh…how?” Marianne whispered from beside him, and she looked up at him, fear and anger flashing in her eyes, “How could he have known that I was here?” she demanded rhetorically. Bog berated himself for his lack of faith in her, knowing full well that she was as ignorant of the situation as he was, and he swiftly planted a kiss on her forehead,

“Leave this to me, lass. We’ll be rid of him quickly, I swear it,” he assured her as they exited the hall.

Bog’s promise did little to quell Marianne’s apprehension. If Roland had indeed tracked her to Windcrest, who knew what else he was capable of, what me might be planning? She held his arm tightly as they approached the foyer, unsure of the whether the knot in the pit of her stomach was a warning to flee, or fuel for a fight.

Bog paused, and leaned down to whisper in her ear,

“Will you wait for me in the dining room? I willnae be long,” he suggested. Marianne was taken aback; she’d been preparing to face her demon, so to speak, and was so unaccustomed to being protected that she had not expected to be given another option. She gave him a resolute nod, and he squeezed her hand before heading for the front doors.

Marianne watched him until he disappeared through the entryway, and then retreated to the dining room.

She heard the large front door creak open loudly, and Bog’s voice rang out, resentment in his tone,

“I donnae believe we are acquainted, sir,” he stated firmly.

“Ah, no, I have not had the honor, sir,” a familiar voice replied, and it took Marianne a few seconds to place it.

“Then what is the meaning of your arrival, late or otherwise?” he sneered, and there was an awkward pause,

“Oh heavens, please forgive me, my name is Everett. I believe my wife and sister-in-law are your guests,” he replied quickly, and Marianne gasped happily, hurrying from the dining room and into the foyer. She beamed as she rounded the corner, and the newcomer’s eyes lit up,

“Speak of the devil,” he chuckled.

“Sutton! How wonderful to see you, dear brother!” Marianne exclaimed as she hugged him happily. He was not nearly so tall as Bog, and it was jarring at first as she hugged him, to find her chin resting on his shoulder, rather than having to lay her cheek against his chest. They parted and gave a slight bow, and Marianne turned to Bog as he cleared his throat,

“My Lord, please allow me to introduce my sister’s husband, Sutton Everett,” she grinned happily, thrilled to have another beloved friend so near. Bog bowed, looking rather sheepish,

“How do you do,” he mumbled, and Marianne bit her lip to keep from giggling,

“Sutton, may I introduce our very gracious host, Lord Barnabas McGregor,” She smiled as she looked up at Bog, subconsciously adjusted his posture and squared his shoulders, assuming his full height, and she discreetly admired his elegant frame as he extended a hand to her brother,

“A pleasure. I do hope you will forgive my disrespect; we were not yet expecting any guests,” they shook hands firmly, and Sutton waved him off, 

“Were it that I could have sent word, I assure you, it would have been done. I was booked at the inn in town until Mrs. Plume came to fetch me; she promised a day or two, however,” he turned to look solemnly at Marianne, “There’s a chap in town that I would prefer not to cross paths with,” and Marianne knew immediately that Sutton had seen Roland as well. Before Marianne could speak, Bog moved to her side, and she found his proximity extremely comforting, 

“Does he know that Miss Faedelle is here?” he asked, and Sutton shook his head, 

“I’m afraid I have no idea, I took my leave as soon as I learned of his presence, and Made haste here so that I might warn you, sister,” he looked at her sympathetically, but Marianne remained calm, squeezing his hand appreciatively, 

“Thank you for your compassion, dear brother. Your wife and I discovered him only this afternoon while on an outing to the shops. Had you not yet arrived? We would have found your companionship very agreeable,” she said smoothly, and Sutton seemed surprised by her nonchalance, 

“You have seen him?” he asked, incredulous, and when Marianne nodded indifferently, he gently placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye, “Are you well? Ill? Has he upset you? Did he _speak_ to you?” he became more and more aggravated with each inquiry, and Marianne cut him off, 

“I assure you, he did not even see me,” she promised him, “I am well, brother. It is past, and I need never think of him again,” out of the corner of her eye, Marianne saw Bog’s chest swell slightly with pride, and she suppressed an affectionate smile. 

“Our hope is that he will depart without discovering that Miss Faedelle is here,” Bog added, and Sutton nodded in agreement, “You are certainly welcome her, sir,” 

“I am very grateful,” Sutton smiled. Suddenly there was a commotion on the stairs behind them, and the three turned in unison to see Dawn rushing down the stairs, 

“Sunny!” she called as she approached them, and Marianne stepped aside with a small grin. She resumed her place beside Bog, and absentmindedly laced her arm through his. He welcomed her touch with an almost undetectable squeeze of his arm around her hand, an exchange which Dawn and Sutton were too lost in each other’s eyes to notice. Dawn, in the meantime, had leveled a stern look at her husband, 

“Were you not to wait at the inn for Silvia to fetch you?” she scolded, “You’ve ruined the surprise!” she pouted as Sutton struggled to articulate an apology. 

“I’m afraid it’s my doing,” Marianne chimed in, “He was just telling us that he saw a certain gentleman today,” 

“I donnae think you can call him that,” Bog scoffed, and Sutton chuckled, 

“Have you met the man, my Lord?” he asked, 

“No, I havenae had the pleasure,” Bog replied, cracking a sarcastic smile that transformed his face. Sutton rolled his eyes, 

“He’s _American_ ,” he jeered, and Bog grimaced, glancing down at Marianne, 

“Is that a fact?” he mumbled, bemused, and Marianne flushed as she attempted to change the subject. Dawn beat her there, 

“Was Silvia well when you left her?” she chirped, and Marianne sighed in relief.

* * *

 

As Sutton assured the ladies that Silvia was in perfect health, and anxiously awaiting her return to Windcrest, a realization crept into Bog’s mind. He cleared his throat, silencing the chatter uncomfortably, 

“Pardon the interruption, but I’m afraid there is a problem we must discuss,” he prompted, and Marianne gave him a questioning look, 

“A problem, my Lord?” her formal address was already foreign to his ears, but he remained silent on the matter, 

“If the man…I pray, what is his name?” 

“Roland, my Lord, Roland Blande,” Mrs. Everett replied, her lips curling with disgust, 

Right. If Mr. Blande plans to stay in town for long, we must entertain the possibility that he is aware of—or plans to attend—the upcoming festivities,” he stated regretfully, eyeing Marianne as his words sunk in. 

“Can we not simply have the staff keep an eye out for him?” Sutton asked, and Marianne shook her head, 

“The ball is to be a masquerade; there would be no telling him apart from the masses,” she replied, and Bog berated himself harshly for insisting upon the change. There was a stretch of worried contemplation the four shared before the silence was finally broken, 

“We will have to watch him ourselves then,” Sutton said determinedly, straightening up, “I will return to the inn and keep close watch over him. Should he act suspiciously in any way, I will send word,” he extended his hand toward Bog, who shook it firmly, 

“I thank you, sir,” and with that, they bid Sutton farewell. Marianne granted him another embrace, and Mrs. Everett kissed him sweetly before he disembarked, 

“Do your best to avoid alerting him to your presence, darling. If he does not already know Marianne’s whereabouts, we do not want to expose her,” 

“Of course, dear,” he replied softly, kissing both her hands and giving them all a swift bow before turning to leave. 

* 

“Quite a bit of excitement for one day,” Dawn remarked, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand as she watched her husband’s carriage pull away and disappear down the drive, “I think I must retire for the evening. Goodnight, my Lord,” she said, curtsying, and Bog bowed in return, “Goodnight sister,” she hugged Marianne tightly, then turned on her heel to head upstairs, leaving Bog and Marianne alone in the foyer. 

“Quite a bit of excitement, indeed,” Bog agreed with a chuckle, and Marianne laughed softly, 

“If only she knew the half of it,” 

“I fear she may know already. She is very perceptive, your sister,” he mused, holding his hand to his neck in mock dread, “Need I fear for my life?” he teased, and Marianne giggled, 

“Not as long as I have anything to say about it,” she assured him, and his stomach stirred in a way that made him both anxious and excited. He was suddenly reminded that she had not given him an answer to his declaration, and he was instantly filled with apprehension. He removed his hand from his throat in favor of brushing it gently against her cheek, a gesture which Marianne leaned into with a smile, gazing up at him as he gave her a meaningful look, 

“And what  _do_  you have to say about it?” he asked softly, taking her hand, and she mirrored the affection in his eyes. Bog’s pulse accelerated as her gaze softened, and the still-fresh memory of her lips pressed sweetly against his drove him to distraction. Her voice was a low, pleasant hum, the words she uttered meant only for his ears, 

“I say that, as long as I am here,” she stepped closer to him, and his hands came to rest tentatively at her waist, “there will be no one closer to my heart than you,” Bog’s heart thumped loudly as the world around them seemed to lose its voice entirely, “and that not a single word spoken against you will ever poison my regard for you,” her assurances spread warmly through his chest and wrapped gently around his heart, and it was almost perfect…but damn him, he needed to hear her  _say_  it. He drew an unsteady breath, doing all he could to prepare himself for whatever answer she deemed him worthy of. His heart sat vulnerably at the edge of a precipice, its fate entirely dependent on her answer,

“I was sincere in my confession, Marianne,” he said softly, his voice shaking, “and I pray you will end my suffering and tell me if it is possible that, perhaps one day,” he swallowed, “you might come to reciprocate my feelings,” his head was positively buzzing with trepidation, and he knew that if she rejected him now, it would truly be the end of him. And yet, deep in the depths of his cautious, guarded soul, he knew her answer before she spoke it, 

“Far be it from me to keep from you a gift you have already been given,” Marianne whispered with a smile, and the floodgates of his heart burst open. In one swift motion he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her up onto the very tips of her toes, and laid his forehead gently against hers. Her cheeks went red as she gasped in surprise, but her resolve remained steadfast, and he felt her warm breath tickle his lips as she spoke, 

“I love you, Bog. I love you more than I could ever possibly express,” she answered sweetly. Bog was breathless, knowing not the words to articulate the sheer joy radiating through him. His knees, however, seemed more than prepared to give out in light of her declaration, and he set her down gently, his forehead still touching hers as he bent down over her. With a brazen look at her lips he leaned in, and she met him idyllically in another tender, adoring kiss. It was a sweet and unassuming as the first, and he noted that she tasted of vanilla and summer.

_Let him come if he dares_ , Bog declared silently, his thoughts flickering smugly to Roland.  _Let the bastard see who he deals with now._  

The final few days before the Ball at Windcrest passed in a pleasant haze for Marianne, and the final touches to the garden were completed with a day to spare. Her interactions with Bog were much the same as they had always been, save for the prolonged caress of his hand on hers when he greeted her in the morning, or the lingering warmth of his lips pressed against her palm before they retired to their rooms for the night.

A singular thought occupied Marianne’s mind as she stood just inside the entry to the ballroom, distracted and staring blankly as dozens of colorful bouquets were paraded into the hall to be placed as centerpieces and various adornments throughout the space: Would Roland be so bold as to make an appearance?

 Sutton had sent them a letter from town only once since his departure, stating that Roland and his companion kept separate rooms at the inn, and frequented the shops in the square; nothing of true consequence, save for his continued presence. There was no word yet on whether or not they seemed to be planning to attend the ball, and Marianne wished that the two would take their leave as quickly and conspicuously as possible so that there would be no doubt whatsoever that they were gone.

A sudden presence at her side jarred her from her reverie, and she turned to see that Griselda had joined her in the entryway,

“Good morning, dear,” she cooed, and Marianne gave the older woman a warm smile,

“I suppose it is,” she replied, eliciting a confused look from the older woman,

“Are you quite well this morning, Marianne?” she asked, concerned, and Marianne responded with a noncommittal sigh,

“I am not ill, I pray you will not fret about it…” she trailed off, and Griselda tutted, leveling a pointed look at her,

“What’s troubling you, dear?” she asked gently, and Marianne sighed again, deciding that it would be prudent to inform Griselda of the situation at hand,

“There is a gentleman staying in town whose presence is cause for some concern” she said restlessly, turning her eyes back to the slow metamorphosis of the ballroom, and Griselda worried her lip,

“The gentleman you were engaged to, is that right?” she asked, and Marianne nodded. Bog had no doubt recounted to her their conversation with Sutton, and she had no qualms with the fact,

“Yes, he has been occupying the inn for the past few days, and we fear he may have something rather nefarious planned,”

“Aye, I am aware. Pardon my son’s forthrightness, but he painted a very vivid picture of the sort of man Mr. Blande is,” she said frankly, and then squeezed Marianne’s hand, “I am very sorry for your struggle, dear,” she added softly, and Marianne nodded appreciatively. She counted herself lucky to have a woman with as much inner strength and resolve as Griselda offering her support; it was easy to see whom Bog had inherited his compassion from,

“Settle your mind dear, you are safe here, I can promise you that,” Griselda assured her with a pat on the hand, “Barnabas would never allow any harm to come to any member of this household, least of all you,” she glanced around discreetly, “He cares a great deal for you, you know,” she whispered. Marianne smiled, her gaze trained on the shining marble, and the wistful reflection of the garden outside blending with the unapologetic blue of the sky, brilliantly illuminating the far end of the ballroom. At that moment, as if she’d somehow summoned him, Bog appeared outside the garden door, turning the handle with a _click_ , and pushing it open with a small squeak. He was accompanied by the head landscaper, and they seemed to be in the midst of an important conversation,

“—can have it completed by this evening my Lord,” the short, stout laborer was saying, and Bog looked pleased as he glanced up, noticing her for the first time, and he became immediately flustered, gesturing for his companion to cease. He looked so much like a child caught pilfering sweets, and the red of embarrassment that painted his cheeks convinced Marianne that he was most definitely up to something. She was almost certain that it concerned the greenhouse he’d requested be left empty,

“I know,” she replied softly to Griselda as they approached Bog in tandem.

“If it isnae my two favorite ladies,” he said smoothly as the landscaper bowed and headed back out into the garden. Griselda chuckled, and Marianne afforded him a demure smile, watching him with one eyebrow raised. He seemed to almost sweat under her discerning stare.

“Bog, darling, is the garden quite finished? I would very much enjoy a chance to finally take a turn in it,” Griselda chirped jovially, hopping forward and taking her son’s arm, 

“Ah, yes, it’s…lovely” he stammered, and Marianne interjected, keeping her eyes fixed on Bog,

Yes, my Lord, _is_ it finished? I dare say, I would love to see the _greenhouse_. I’m sure it’s been quite transformed,” she teased, and Bog swallowed audibly, clearly searching for an excuse. Her smile widened as she realized she’d guessed correctly.

“I-I’m afraid there is nothing yet for you to see, Miss Faedelle,” he said nervously glancing away to the left for the briefest second, and Marianne gave him a skeptical smirk, 

“Yet?” she echoed, and he nodded stiffly,

“Indeed,” he replied quickly, unsure of what to say next. Griselda, luckily, huffed and had her say,

“Never you mind about the greenhouse dear, I’m sure you will find something splendid to do with it someday,” she turned to Bog, “Has the tailor delivered your garments yet?” she asked suddenly, changing the subject,

“Aye, they arrived early this morning,”

“And they are agreeable?” she pressed, and Bog flushed slightly,

“They are…quite ornate,” he replied vaguely, and his mother rolled her eyes,

“It is a _ball_ , isn’t it dear? Would you rather wear the same garments you wore ten years ago?” she asked, her words carrying an underlying meaning that Marianne could not quite grasp,

“Mother,” Bog said quietly, the word strained, and Griselda nodded,

“Then we’re in agreement,” she smiled, taking his hand and pulling him toward the stairs, to both he and Marianne’s surprise,

“What on earth are you doing?” he asked incredulously, attempting fruitlessly to wrench his arm from his mother’s iron grip,

“There are things to discuss and preparations to make before the guests arrive, dear, she responded cheerfully, glancing over her shoulder at Marianne, “Surely you can manage for a few hours without each other’s company,” she winked, dragging him away, and it was Marianne’s turn to blush. It seemed all propriety had been lost—or perhaps ignored—where she and Bog were concerned, and it was becoming more and more difficult to convince herself that their timid courtship was not common knowledge within Windcrest. Beyond it, however, was another story entirely.

As swiftly as Bog and his mother had exited, Dawn rushed in, catching Marianne by surprise,

“Marianne, wait until you hear—I have just had the most wonderful news from Sunny!” she exclaimed, and Marianne’s heart leapt into her throat,

“What news, sister?” she inquired nervously, and Dawn beamed at her, waving around the letter she had clasped in her hand,

“You must read it for yourself!” she squealed, holding the letter just out of her sister’s reach as she clamored for it. Finally, Marianne managed to snatch the parchment away, and she unfolded it carefully, smoothing the edges as she read,

> **_To my dearest wife and sister,_ **
> 
> **_I am thrilled to have the happy privilege of delivering the most wonderful news. This morning as I was taking breakfast in the dining room, I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of Mr. Blande and his companion loading their trunks onto a carriage headed south. I inquired after its destination, and was informed that all its passengers were bound for a ship, which will carry them to England in a few days’ time. It seems they have both gone for good, what good fortune!_ **
> 
> **_I will return to Windcrest in the next available carriage, and look forward to being in your company once more._ **
> 
> **_Fondest regards,_ **
> 
> **_Sutton Everett_ **

Marianne exhaled shakily, feeling as though an enormous weight was lifting from her chest.

“Oh, Dawn,” she breathed. Elated, she embraced her sister tightly, then dashed from the room to find Bog. It felt almost too good to be true, and perhaps it was, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. All she desired from Roland now was his indefinite absence, and he seemed to have finally granted it to her. She found it impossible to keep her smile from growing wider with each passing second as she began to think that this development might grant her an evening of true peace and leisure, one during which she could breathe freely without any impending threats stealing her attention away from far more important things. She entertained herself with speculations about Bog’s formal attire, and her heart felt so light that she all but flew up the stairs.


	9. The Faedelle of the Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS FIC HAS NOT BEEN ABANDONED!! I'm so sorry for the long hiatus I took from writing, but my life kind of went to hell in a handbag the day after I posted the previous chapter. More details at the end, if anyone is interested. Anyway, here's an extra long chapter as a thank you for bearing with me!!

Even after all they’d been through, all they’d shared, Bog still managed to find himself embarrassed by his mother, in some form, in Marianne’s presence. On this particular occasion, it was Griselda’s allusion to the last time he’d attended such a grand occasion as the evening promised, over a decade ago. Though he knew there was little point in keeping anything from Marianne any longer—and he doubted he could even if he wanted to—it somehow still shamed him to think of her discovering that the last ball he attended was his and Lorna’s wedding reception.

Though it still pained him to think of it, he was able to shove away the memory of his past, something he’d become better at accomplishing as of late, and focused instead on his mother’s rambling,

“—very handsome waistcoat. I always liked that color on you,” she went on and on, to his chagrin, “—the mask as well, everything is handmade, which I dearly hope you can appreciate, since it is all for Marianne’s sake,” the mention of Marianne caught his attention, but only enough so to make him smile absentmindedly as he continued to ignore her gibbering. It wasn’t until they arrived at his bedroom door that he realized she meant for him to try on the garments that very instant,

“Mother, I hardly think this is necessary. The guests willnae be arriving for hours yet, aside from which I am quite capable of getting myself dressed,” he implored, and Griselda smiled defiantly,

“I am simply ensuring that you donnae lose your nerve, son,” she said, giving him a pointed look, and he stared at her, surprised and made vulnerable by her blunt admission. He looked away, hunching his shoulders slightly in embarrassment,

“Do you truly think I would let Marianne wander a mass of strangers alone?” he asked, offended by her insinuation,

“When she needed your protection? I never would have doubted it. However, now that all that is required of you for the evening is your presence,” she paused, and Bog wondered if she could truly see how afraid he was. He hadn’t thought he’d ever hold another woman the way he had held Lorna as they waltzed on their wedding day, but it seemed Marianne’s presence had done exactly what his mother had hoped it would. She had opened his heart to the possibility that he could one day do just that, and now an opportunity he had never expected—and didn’t know if he deserved—had all but brought him back to life.

He fully understood why his mother had her doubts about his resolve, but he was fully determined to remain by Marianne’s side, come hell or high water. He knew people would talk but he didn’t care, in fact he found himself desiring to prove to everyone who might look down on Marianne and her affections for him that they were gravely mistaken. He would improve himself, and become a man Marianne deserved, a man worthy of her devotion; a man he could be proud to be, and that others could put their faith in.

His mother patted his shoulder reassuringly,

“You are stronger than them, son,” she said softly, as if reading his thoughts, “and despite what you may think, Marianne can see that,” she squeezed his arm lightly, and Bog shook his head absentmindedly,

“It is not _her_ faith in me that I doubt,” he replied softly, uncertainty washing over him, “It is _mine_ ,” he sighed heavily, his gaze cast at the ground, and for a long moment he felt utterly helpless. It was a nervous, aching knot in his chest that seemed to press unyieldingly against his heart, its beats labored and hard as they vibrated through his rib cage. He had felt it so often in the past, but now it was a practically foreign sensation, and all the more disconcerting as a result. It stole his breath and sent his mind reeling as it threatened to consume him, but through the darkness seeping into his mind came a sweet, strong voice—it rang out like a bell, calling his name and caressing his soul, promising that everything would be alright. He exhaled slowly, reassuring himself that all would be well if continued down the path that he had chosen—to trust Marianne, and believe in the power she seemed to lend to him.

He lifted his eyes firmly to the mirror hanging on the wall opposite him, and stared himself down. He could do this—he _would_ do this. After all that had been said and done, he knew he would be willing to do anything necessary for the sake of Marianne—even endure an evening of harsh whispers and cold stares. He would endure anything for her. Bog straightened up to his full height, and gave his mother a short nod and a small smile. She grinned back reassuringly and turned to leave, to Bog’s surprise,

“You arenae staying?” he asked, and she waved at him without stopping or looking,

“I can see it in your eyes, darlin’; you’re no’ going anywhere,” she chirped, and Bog let out a bewildered laugh—as usual, she was right.

* * *

 

Marianne quickly found that she was far more nervous about the evening than she had initially anticipated, and she wrung her hands distractedly as Dawn rushed around her, relaying specific instructions to Innis about hairstyles and brooch placement.

The young Mrs. Everett had intercepted Marianne on her way to deliver the news of Roland’s departure, and had since busied herself with arranging Marianne’s copious amounts of hair. Marianne had, of course, assured her sister that she could manage it herself, but Dawn had insisted. The elder Miss Faedelle’s hair now lay curled and pinned to perfection in an intricate pattern behind her head, save for two long, curled tendrils that hung freely to Marianne’s lower back. Marianne had muttered something about such a style being impractical for dancing, but one word from Dawn on how a certain Lord would no doubt find it very pleasing had silenced her on the matter.

“Really, Marianne, I cannot think of a single reason for you to be so nervous,” Dawn teased pointedly as she fluttered about the room, comparing ribbons as she held them up to the light and tossing aside the ones she deemed unsightly, “And I am never wrong about these things, you know,” she quipped with a grin, and Marianne’s cheeks flushed red as she smiled to herself,

“Dawn, it’s the most remarkable feeling,” Marianne breathed, giving her sister pause to realize that she was speaking in earnest, “The idea of dancing with Lord McGreggor, the…” she cleared her throat, “the intimacy of it…would you believe me if I told you that I no longer fear it?” She laughed softly and Dawn smiled, wrapping a slender arm around her sister’s shoulders,

“Marianne, you are quite the most severe and meticulous judge of character I have ever known,” she squeezed her sister’s shoulder, “And besides that, I would never insult you by dreaming you would speak falsely to me, especially about something so important,” she finished with a short nod, and Marianne smiled,  
“Never,” she agreed. Dawn suddenly sprang up and spun around, letting her skirts swing fluidly and twist briefly around her calves before settling, the hem just brushing the soft carpeting. She looked at Marianne with determination, though her sister thought she rather resembled a pouting child intent on having their way,

“If you change your mind, you will dance with me,” she stated firmly, and Marianne stifled a laugh behind her hand,

“How generous, but you and I both know only children dance together in such a way, sister,” she replied, unable to quell her laughter when Dawn suddenly knelt carefully and held out her hand,

“May I have this dance?” she asked jokingly, and proceeded to wobble around on her knees with her arms outstretched as though she were waltzing. Marianne doubled over in a fit of uncontrollable giggles as Dawn performed, chiding her between breaths for wrinkling her gown. At last there was a knock at the parlor door, and Marianne struggled to calm her breathing as she bid the visitor enter,

“Miss Marianne, Mrs. Everett,” Innis gave a quick curtsy as she entered the drawing room, “Lady McGregor sent me to inform you that the guests have begun to arrive. She bids you both to join her in the ballroom,” she motioned toward the door and Marianne drew a long breath to steady herself. Dawn squeezed her hand as they nodded and moved in unison to follow Innis, then stopped suddenly,

“Oh!” she dashed back into the bedroom, disappearing for a moment, and reappeared a moment later with something clutched in each hand, “I nearly forgot!” As she rejoined the party, all of whose curiosity was now piqued, she held out a hand to Marianne, who gingerly removed what her sister offered her. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that it was a small section of off-white lace, perhaps five inches wide and two inches tall, with silk ribbon of the same color attached at two ends—a mask. It consisted of a tightly woven floral pattern, and along the hem were sewn delicate pearl beads which flowed with the twisting vines and budding primroses. Marianne sighed softly in awe,

“Dawn, when did you…?” she trailed off, and her sister beamed,

“Let me help you,” she offered, and Marianne let her carefully affix the silk ribbons amongst the complexities of her hair. Dawn pinned them discretely for good measure, and stood back to admire her work. She grinned smugly as she bid her sister turn in place to be admired. Innis gave her heartfelt approval excitedly, and Marianne’s cheeks reddened as she smiled.

As the two sister emerged onto the landing outside the parlor, Sutton strode over exuberantly to greet them,

“Upon my word, I have never seen two more stunning ladies in all my life,” he beamed, kissing each of their hands in turn and offering each of them an arm. At this, Marianne’s face fell slightly as he looked around,

“Will Lord McGreggor be joining us?” she asked, glancing between Sutton and Innis. Her brother-by-law looked thoughtful, as though he had not considered this detail, but Innis, as always, was prepared,

“My Lord sends his apologies, Miss Marianne, and asked me to deliver this to you,” she handed Marianne a folded piece of parchment with a short bow, and for a brief moment, Marianne’s heart thudded unpleasantly in her chest. She unfolded the note carefully as her sister and brother looked on curiously,

 

_My Dearest Marianne,_

_Please forgive my tardiness, there were a few final details in the greenhouse that I was required to oversee. I promise I will not be long. Enjoy the festivities, I will find you shortly._

_Affectionately Yours,_

_Bog_

 

Marianne felt a swirling mixture of relief and affection bubble within her as she read, admiring his graceful handwriting and committing the final few words to memory; ‘Affectionately Yours,’. Her heart fluttered elatedly as she smiled down at the note, startled when Dawn suddenly spoke up,

“Is Lord McGregor well, sister?” she inquired airily, craning her neck to peek at the note before Marianne swiftly refolded it and nodded,

“Yes, quite well, he will be joining us soon. Thank you, Innis,” she gave her maid a gentle, grateful smile as the three made their way down the stairs.

* * *

 

Bog stared at himself through the eye holes of his mask, which—even _he_ had to admit—was truly a work of art. It was made of what could only described as brown leather leaves, of sorts, expertly stitched together and stamped with swirling Celtic patterns. They swept back and over to the top of his head from the bridge of his nose and above his eyes and matching his dark hair, which he had combed back neatly. Two leather pieces peaked at the bridge of his nose, curved under his eyes and lay over his ears, making them appear pointed, and giving him a certain mystical air. He sighed nervously as he examined it, knowing it was bound to draw attention.

The rest of his wardrobe was well crafted and handsome, but likely nothing any gaudier than what he supposed any other gentleman would be wearing. It was a vintage-styled ensemble, with an embroidered, off-white waistcoat, paired with a coat of a warm brown to match the mask. The collar was high, embroidered and beaded to match the cuffs, with an intricate swirling pattern trailing down from the neckline to the long tails in the back. His pants were a complimenting shade of off-white, and on the whole, Bog felt he looked rather like some sort of dessert.

As he grimaced into the mirror, he was startled by a sudden knock at his door,

“My Lord?” Greer called from the hallway, “There appears to be a late delivery from town,” Bog took a deep breath, glad to have something to occupy his mind,

“Thank you, Greer. Direct them to the rear gate of the garden and inform them that I will join them presently,” he said smoothly as he turned from side to side, taking in his appearance from as many different angles as he could bear.

“Yes, my Lord,” Greer replied before retreating. Bog listened to the footsteps fade, then made one more face at himself in the mirror before placing a shaking hand on the door handle. He took as many roundabout hallways as he could manage, slipping as silently as possible through the unoccupied areas of the manor. At last he arrived at his destination—an unused servants’ quarters on the far end of the house. He slipped out the door and into the night air, grateful for the protection from his guests’ prying eyes. Bog made his way around the outside of the garden wall, listening to the muffled voices of his guests, the crunch of gravel beneath boots and carriage wheels, and his paced slowed. The sound of a busy household was so foreign to him, something he had never thought or cared to behold again—his chest tightened with sentimentality as he realized how much he had missed it.

Bog inhaled deeply, letting the cool evening air fill his lungs and invigorate him as he approached the rear gate of the garden. The landscaper and a younger man—perhaps his son—greeted Bog wearily,

“Evening, m’lord,” the elder of the pair said amiably, tipping his hat. Bog held shook the landscaper’s hand firmly,

“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Garret,” he said with a smile, doing his best to convey his gratitude, “I appreciate your generosity on the matter, as well as your discretion,” Bog counted himself both lucky and fortunate that his family’s loyalty to this particular landscaper had kept their acquaintance intact after Lorna had passed,

“Anything for an old friend,” the old man smiled, and there it was again—that twinge of sentimentality in Bog’s chest, “Where would you like us to put these?” Mr. Garret asked, motioning to the various accoutrements in the open bed of his carriage. Everything from off-season blooms, to delicate marble figures, to smoothed shards of stained glass, to time-polished river stones lay bathed in the warm light emanating from the manor, and Bog gave an exuberant smile,

“There is a detailed plan on the bench just inside,” he gestured toward the greenhouse, then gave Mr. Garret another firm, appreciative handshake, “Please forgive me, I’m needed inside. I am entrusting this project to you in its entirety,”

“You won’t recognize the place when we’re done with it, m’lord, I can promise you that,” Mr. Garret grinned and jerked his head toward the manor, “Go on then, leave it to us,” Bog nodded, and with a last wistful gaze at the greenhouse he hurried back in the direction from whence he’d come.

* * *

 

 Marianne stood quietly near one of the ornate rear windows of the ballroom, regarding the flurry of celebration around her halfheartedly as she watched the greenhouse as inconspicuously as she could. Intent on dissuading any curious gentlemen from approaching—or even seeing—her, she kept her fan open about her face at all times. She reveled in the peace it afforded her while she could, knowing that as soon as Silvia arrived, it would come to an abrupt end. For the moment it seemed to be working, so much so that she let her guard drop just enough to leave her oblivious to the sudden presence at her side until the intruder spoke,

“I dare say, Marianne, that you will not get the same enjoyment out of this occasion watching it reflected in the window as you would if you actually participated,” Dawn chided playfully, and Marianne jumped, to Dawn’s delight. She let out a musical laugh and leaned over to follow Marianne’s gaze out into the garden, “What is it that you are lending your undivided attention to?” she asked, her voice low and probing,

“Nothing, I—“

“ _Oh_ , is someone out there? How scandalous,” Dawn’s eyes lit up and Marianne took her arm, leading her away from the window toward the dining room. Dawn was positively giddy, “My, my, Marianne, you really _must_ tell me,” she insisted. Marianne shushed her quietly, looking around to make sure they weren’t drawing any unwanted attention,

“I pray you will not go on about it,” she said firmly, then her expression softened, “In Bog—Lord McGreggor’s note, he informed me that he would overseeing some final details concerning the greenhouse. I was simply…” she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence, and Dawn grinned knowingly,

“Ah, well, in _that_ case, I’ll leave you to it. I really must go find my dear husband, the poor man can _not_ hold his liquor for the life of him,” she giggled as she bounced away. _A trait you clearly share_ Marianne thought exasperatedly to herself as she turned back toward the ballroom.

Upon entering the foyer, there was a sudden commotion near the front door. There was the sound of flurried footsteps beyond it, then it swung open grandly to reveal a handsome, middle-aged woman in a rather extravagant gown of deep navy. Her silver buttons and jewelry glinted in the candlelight, and perfectly matched her hair, which was piled into a mass of curls on top of her head. She held an ornate fan in her right hand, and waved it around in a flamboyant, uninhibited way as she spoke, spotting Marianne,

“Hello, my dear!” she called, and Marianne’s eyes lit up,

“Silvia!” she exclaimed in turn, rushing to greet her charmingly eccentric benefactor, “It’s so wonderful to see you!” the two women clasped their hands together,

“And you, dear,” Silvia put a finger underneath Marianne’s chin and tilted her head up so that she might examine it carefully. After a moment she dropped her hand, appearing to be satisfied, “You seem to be quite happy,” she grinned, taking note of Marianne’s flustered reaction to her words,

“Oh, yes, I…that is, your sister and nephew have been exceedingly hospitable, and so very kind,” she replied, and Silvia gave her a warm smile,

“I am so happy to hear it! Now, speaking of my dearest sister and her ill-tempered son,” she peered around the foyer grandly, “Where in heaven’s name are they?” Marianne was about to respond when, as though she had been summoned, Griselda came bustling into the room,

“You are late, sister,” she said flatly, to which Silvia simply smiled and waved her fan,

“Indeed, but here I am! Now, let us have our introductions!” she hooked her arm through Marianne’s and strode toward the ballroom so suddenly that it took Marianne a moment to understand,

“W-wait!” she stammered, pulling Silvia to a stop. The older woman gave her a quizzical look, and Marianne scrambled to find a suitable explanation, “I was, um…forgive me, but should we not wait for Lord McGreggor to join us?” she suggested, hoping to buy herself some time to prepare. Silvia considered the idea while Griselda tried and failed to hide a knowing grin,

“I suppose you are right,” Silvia replied with a small huff, turning to her sister, “Where is that brooding son of yours?” Griselda rolled her eyes before regarding Marianne kindly,

“Do you know where he is, dear?” Marianne shook her head,

“I was informed that he was attending to a matter concerning the greenhouse. I have not seen him,” Marianne looked at Silvia apologetically, but her worry was waved away by Silvia’s silk fan,

“No matter, dear. If Barnabas isn’t here, we will simply have to do without him,” Marianne swallowed nervously as she was once again pulled toward the crowd of guests.

* * *

 

 Bog missed nothing; he had a trained eye for detail, and fancied himself a master of preparedness—in most cases at least. At this particular moment, Bog was berating himself for not having kept a spare master key with him. The door back into the vacant servants’ quarters had been locked, no doubt by one of the household staff during their rounds. _Damn it all_ , he thought as he made his way around to the front of the house. _I suppose I have no choice then_. He weaved between the carriages littering the driveway, trying his best to go unnoticed by the drivers and coachmen—he just wanted to get back inside and find Marianne, as he’d promised he would. As he neared the front door, a hushed conversation reached his ears,

“—not believe the chap I drove her tonight. Some American bloke, all condescending and pompous-like…” Bog stopped in his tracks for a moment, horror overtaking him, “An American? Here?” the conversation continued, “Aye, bloody wanker too,” Bog swallowed, finding his throat dry, then broke into a sprint. _American?! No. NO._ He tore up the stairs, startling a few of his guests, and made a bee line for the ballroom.

* * *

 

As Marianne had feared, as soon as her name had been made known, a line of eager gentlemen had formed to make her acquaintance while the majority of the female quests whispered among each other as they scrutinized her. Her cheeks burned hot and her stomach twisted uncomfortably as gentlemen after gentleman approached her, smiling, charming, bowing—some even dared to kiss her hand as they caressed it. She forced herself to smile, though the unwelcome contact made her wish she could tank her hand away and slap each of them across the face. Amidst the commotion, all of the guests’ faces began to blur together—not that it was at all possible to tell one person from another in the crowd; each and every one of them wore a mask. She hardly even took notice when one particular gentleman spoke to her a bit longer than the others.

He asked where she was from, how she liked living at Windcrest, and if she missed her family home. The odd question confused her for a brief moment, and something about the man’s accent was impossible to place. English, surely, but with a hint of…what? She shook her head minutely, and plastered on a smile as she answered,

“There was certainly a time when I missed it a great deal,” the stranger gave her an oddly satisfied smile. She studied his peculiar reaction, and the features of his face that were visible, “But now I can honestly say that there is nothing left there for me to miss,” she finished, taken aback when the guest’s amused grin turned into a scowl, transforming his face into one that she suddenly recognized. Her breath caught painfully in her throat. Time suddenly slowed and the bright colors around her suddenly seemed to grow dull. A shiver of panic snaked through her as Roland sneered down at her,

“Is that so?” he hissed menacingly. Marianne’s eyes went wide with anger and surprise, he worst fear taking shape right in front of her.

Roland was there, in the ballroom, standing so close that he could touch her, and Bog was nowhere in sight. Silvia, as well, seemed to have wandered off somewhere, and she plead with herself not to panic—though her mind raced as she wondered what on earth could be taking her host so long. She bid herself remember that she had no reason to fear this man any longer, and Instead she forced herself to stand tall and meet his eyes unwaveringly. She would give him nothing, not a single inch.

Roland studied her defiant expression, taken aback as though he had been expecting a different reaction, then his visage melted easily into a sickly sweet smile,

“Interesting,” he murmured, making Marianne’s skin crawl. Just as her hands curled into trembling fists, a sudden warmth caressed her right arm as another was wound through it. Roland’s eyes flashed up to the interloper’s face, and Marianne released an unsteady breath as Bog’s familiar scent washed over her. She looked up at him, slightly awestruck by his sudden appearance, and Bog regarded her warmly before glaring icy daggers at the unwelcome man before them. The mask he wore made him look incredibly intimidating, and Marianne had absolutely no pity for Roland as Bog stared him down. His appearance had also thoroughly dissuaded the other gentleman from approaching, which she was thankful for.

“I donnae believe you received an invitation, lad,” Bog remarked warningly, and Marianne shivered. She had never heard him sound so dangerous—it was alarmingly thrilling. "And as I am firmly against you causing a scene in my home, I suggest you leave," Marianne squeezed Bog's arm reflexively to calm him, to no avail. Scattered whispers met her ears, and as she looked around she realized they were beginning to draw attention. Bog seemed to have noticed, as well,

“Now, if you please, Mr. Blande—“

"Such an honor to make your acquaintance, my Lord, Miss Faedelle," Roland replied loudly, cutting Bog off. His poor, faux accent now grated unpleasantly against her ears. He gave a sweeping bow, and Marianne felt cold, despite the warmth of the room and how flushed with anger she was. How dare he waltz into her home uninvited and—

_Not_  your  _home_ , she corrected herself, realizing she had almost let her emotions run away with her. Distracted by her slight internal embarrassment, she nearly jumped out of her skin when Roland took her hand gently, leaned down to lay a kiss upon it, and instead whispered,

"I'm afraid we must have a chat, the three of us," against her skin—for a moment she thought she would be sick. She felt Bog stiffen at her side as the two men's fierce gazes met again. Roland gave him an amiable grin, "To avoid a scene, of course,"

* * *

 

Bog's jaw clenched in anger as he stared at the nauseatingly smug man before him. He was acting—very poorly—putting on a show for the guests so as not to alert anyone to their… _predicament_. Bog had to admit that he was grateful when the people standing near them seemed to lose interest in the exchange, but then Roland was _touching_ Marianne, holding her hand as though they were dear old friends. Bog went rigid, and then Roland’s lips nearly touched her skin and Bog nearly lost himself to the hatred burning inside him. Instead however, low words were spoken, meant only for the three of them to hear,

“I’m afraid we must have a chat, the three of us,” the younger man whispered, straightening with a smile, “to avoid a scene, of course,” Bog took a deep breath, then plastered an easy smile across his face, doing his best to not appear menacing as he wished to,

“Quite right, Mr. Blande, I believe we _do_ have a few things to discuss. This way, if you please,” Bog motioned toward the drawing room. Roland nodded, but before he could take a single step, he was brought to an abrupt halt,

“I am afraid that I really must object,” Marianne remarked firmly, to both men’s surprise. Roland inhaled sharply at her protest, and narrowed his eyes as he looked down the end of his nose at her. Bog merely stared at her, wonderment overtaking his expression,

“Do you?” the two men asked in unison, though their tones differed greatly. Marianne leveled a fierce glare at Roland, who flinched in response,

“I do,” she stepped forward, holding her head high and disentangling her arm from Bog’s, “You have come here this evening unannounced and uninvited,” she seethed, though she kept her voice surprisingly even, “The method through which you found yourself within the walls of Windcrest will be discovered and remedied immediately. You are not now, nor will you ever be, welcome here,” Roland stepped back, clearly shocked and incredibly flustered. Bog watched in complete awe as Marianne rose to the challenge Roland had ambushed her with, and overtook him single-handedly. Roland glowered at her,

“You don’t want to be speakin’ to me that way, darlin’,” he warned, his voice low as he delivered his thinly-veiled threat. Bog’s nostrils flared with anger at his words, but Marianne refused to falter,

“To be perfectly honest, Mr. Blande, I cannot say that I wish to speak to you at all,” she countered, and Bog nearly laughed out loud, “However, since you are here you will listen to what I have to say,” she proclaimed firmly before Roland could protest, “You have disturbed our evening, and our peace of mind, and while there is little doubt in my mind that this was your intention, I can promise you that your presence here is as inconsequential as it is inappropriate. Furthermore, the assumption that either Lord McGreggor or myself would have any interest in _anything_ you have to say is, I can assure you, a grievous miscalculation on your part.” she had him. Her quick, clever tongue and biting fortitude had caught him completely off guard, and Bog could see that the useless sod was on the verge of retreating. In a last ditch effort to preserve his dignity, Roland responded rashly,

"I thought I had done a better job of teaching you when to keep your mouth shut," he snapped. Marianne's eyes narrowed,

"Any hold you had over me or my behavior disappeared the day you banished me from my father's house, and sneaking into Windecrest like the rat you are will do nothing to change that. I must insist that you depart immediately,” she concluded. Bog’s heart beat chaotically in his chest—watching her exude such strength sent a surge of admiration flowing through him, and a second, more intense sensation that was far less innocent. He cleared his throat to stifle a chuckle, eliciting a displeased glance from Roland.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the quiet intensity with which Marianne addressed her former fiancé vanished, and she smiled sweetly up at him,

“Do have a safe journey back to town,” she chirped before turning her back to him and returning to Bog's side. Roland sneered as Bog summoned Greer to escort him out. Bog’s eyes never left Marianne’s face as she watched the young man go. The moment he was out of sight, her determined expression retreated to reveal her intense relief, and Bog’s heart stuttered in his chest. She was, in a word, magnificent. He must have looked utterly dumbstruck, for when she turned her shining eyes to look at him, they were suddenly clouded by concern,

“Are you well, my Lord?” she asked quietly, her small hand coming to rest discreetly on his arm. As the celebration continued, uninterrupted, around them, he was unable to keep his amazement from permeating his very soul. Of all the thoughts and feelings racing through his mind at that moment, none were the least bit appropriate for the occasion. Her incredible show of willpower left his throat dry and his mind and body pining for her. She was all he could ever want or hope for, and he struggled to form the words as he finally stumbled upon an appropriate show of admiration,

“Dance with me, Marianne, please,” he breathed, gazing at her affectionately as her cheeks turned a becoming shade of crimson, “Please honor me with a waltz,”

* * *

 

Marianne pressed a hand gently to her stomach, letting the rough feeling of her brocade bodice ground her. Adrenaline still coursed through her as Bog led her to the center of the ballroom, parting the sea of guests and ignoring the hushed speculations buzzing around them. All eyes were focused on the unprecedented pair as they took the floor, but Marianne ignored them in favor of watching Bog. She took in his movements, measured as they were, and wondered if he wasn’t even more anxious than she was.

The feeling of his hand slipping around her waist sent a nervous shiver through her chest, and she drew a shaky breath, feeling nearly naked under the intense stares of their guests. Bog squeezed her hand gently and offered her a reassuring smile,

“Are you sure about this?” he inquired once more as the strings began to hum throughout the hall. Marianne squeezed his shoulder inconspicuously as her hand came to rest there delicately. Then the music flared to life around them, and Marianne found herself floating. Bog was every bit as magnificent a dancer as she had imagined. The steps were exactly as he had demonstrated for her, and he spun her out to the side skillfully before pulling her back against him with a small, pleased smirk. He was an expert lead, using the weight of his body to spin her deftly around the marbled floor, carefully maneuvering around their guests as other couples took the floor around them. They moved with such ease and elation that Marianne could not help but become lost in every effortless movement—she could swear that her feet never even touched the ground. Her anxiety melted with every turn, and the night became imbued with vibrant color and cheerful, entrancing song that she was sure would be forever ingrained pleasantly into her memory for the rest of her life. She could not remember ever being happier.

Her eyes locked on Bog’s, she mirrored his euphoric smile as they swept around the room, and she so wished that she could lean up and kiss him. She could feel the warmth of his body through the layers of her gown, and it was not lost on her when he drew her closer than was strictly necessary, their bodies pressing flush against each other. She could feel her desire for him pooling in her lower abdomen again, and his bated breath suggested that he shared her struggle. The intoxicating romance of the music swam through her and drove her to distraction until there was nothing else but the scent of him as she breathed. His mouth was so tantalizingly close, and yet kept so far away from her by the looming threat of scandal and impropriety that she nearly cursed aloud.

The music built to its climax, then came to a triumphant end, and there was clapping and adoring praise for the musicians. Marianne blinked several times, attempting to clear her mind, and stepped away from her host to bow respectfully. She turned to show her appreciation for the music, only to be startled by Bog’s voice low in her ear, his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin there,

“May I have a moment, Miss Faedelle?” he whispered, and she shuddered excitedly at the roughness in his tone,

“You may, my Lord,” she replied breathlessly, and she felt him smile against her ear before he straightened up to his full height. The look of desire she found in his eyes when she turned to look at him sent her heart thudding wildly in her chest. He offered her his arm, which she took without a second thought. They made their way casually around the outside of the ballroom floor, careful to avoid the suspicious eyes of Griselda and Dawn, and avoiding Plumb altogether. Another cheerful tune had begun as they skirted the crowd of guests, providing an adequate distraction and allowing them to exit silently into the foyer, completely unnoticed.

* * *

 

Since Windcrest had been built with such a large and accommodating ballroom, the first floor drawing room went largely unused during events such as the evening’s festivities, a fact which Bog had never found particularly relevant until this precise moment. He opened one of the windowed double doors as quietly as possible, allowing Marianne to slip inside before following her and closing it carefully behind him.

The room was completely dark, save for the candlelight spilling in from the hallway, and the licentiousness of their behavior was glaringly obvious, but all that was of very little consequence as Bog leaned over Marianne, pinning her against the wall of the parlor. His hands pressed firmly against the floral wallpaper on either side of her head, while hers rested on his chest, clutching at the smooth fabric of his coat as he pressed his lips to hers fervently.

There was no question in this kiss, no doubt, no hesitant exploration of feelings. No, this time there was only unabated passion, and the desire to reaffirm the tender words that had already been shared between them. And then, as Bog flicked his tongue out to taste her lips, an even deeper need bloomed within him. He wanted to feel her against him, unbound by bodices and waistcoats and undergarments, to feel himself buried deeply inside her and let the searing heat of her radiance scald him. Marianne parted her lips wantonly for him, and their mingled breathing became labored.

He wrapped his arms tightly around her as her fingers curled in his hair, and he turned his attention from her lips, plump and pink from being kissed, to plant delicate kisses along her neck. Marianne let out a small gasp and Bog felt himself harden in response—it allowed him enough clarity of mind to realize that what was happening to was too much too soon. Marianne was so young—though not nearly as naïve as he had once thought—and he had promised to never, ever take advantage of her. He abandoned his ministrations at her neck and pulled her into a gentle embrace. At first she seemed confused by the abrupt change, but after a few seconds she slid her arms around his waist and buried her face contentedly against his chest. Guilt washed over Bog as they stood in the darkened parlor, embracing silently. He wanted her to understand, to know that this was _not_ what he had meant when he told her that he loved her; he wanted her to know that he valued her far more than stealing her innocence against a wall while hidden away in his drawing room would imply. She was just so... _tempting_ ,

“Marianne, I..” he trailed off, words failing him, but Marianne’s muffled response soothed him,

“I know,” she whispered tenderly, and it was more than enough.

“My, my, my, how disgraceful,” came a sudden coo from the opposite end of the room, and Bog and Marianne started in unison, "If I had known you'd be giving it away for free, I would have taken you to bed a long time ago," the voice chuckled darkly. Bog whirled around swiftly, placing himself squarely between Marianne and the trespasser,

“Show yourself,” Bog demanded, hoping off-handedly that could remember how to fight—and that the intruder didn’t have a weapon,

“As you wish, _my lord_ ,” the voice said mockingly as its owner stepped into the candlelight cascading through the doors. Bog tensed, readying himself for a brawl,

“How did you get back inside?” Bog demanded again, and Roland sneered,

“Let’s just say I have a talent for getting what I want,” he drawled, and Marianne glared,

“Get. _Out_.” She bit out, and Roland chuckled again,

“Now hold on a minute, darlin’, let’s not do anything you’re gonna regret,” he said smoothly, holding up a finger and making a ‘come hither’ motion in her direction, “Now bring your pretty little self on over here so we can kiss and make up,” he winked cockily, and Bog strode toward him, furious, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sound of a hammer being drawn back. The loud click seemed to echo throughout the room, and Bog begrudgingly raised his arms in surrender as Marianne stared, horrified. _Shit_. Roland kept the Colt trained on Bog as he eased himself into the nearest armchair,

“Like I said,” he smirked, “We three need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I agonized for DAYS over this chapter. Getting back into the swing of writing has been tough, but I finally got this chapter the way I wanted it, so hurray for progress!  
> On another note, here's what's been happening. Back in May, literally the day after I posted chapter 8 of this fic, my dad died suddenly of a heart attack. I wish I was making that up, but I'm not. So I had to plan his memorial, contact all of his friends, and our family...it was really rough. I hope none of you ever have to tell someone that their best friend/son/father/brother has passed away, it was the most heartbreaking thing I've ever done.  
> Ten days later, my younger sister had her baby--talk about renewal of energy, am I right? After the memorial in June, life started getting back to normal, and I sat down to start writing again...and then one of my dog's got really sick really quickly, and we had to put her down. The universe has NOT been kind to me the past couple of months, but I've been persevering as best I can. I have my best friends to thank for being able to stay sane. Without them I have no doubt that I'd be in a much darker place right now.  
> Anyhow, I hope you all enjoyed this update, I'll try to get the next one out some time this next week. Peace!


	10. A Cruel Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone so much for their words of kindness, understanding, and encouragement. I'm so glad that you're all still enjoying this story so much. Thank you!!

Dawn fluttered distractedly around the dance floor, the champagne bubbling through her and tickling her nose. She danced every dance with her adoring husband, and looked on blissfully as her Sister was formally introduced to the party. She was quite put out by Lord McGregor’s absence, and so wished she could stand by Marianne’s side as gentleman after gentleman approached her to make her acquaintance. The sensation lasted only briefly, however, as Dawn watched one of them linger, words that she could not hear exchanged. A minute later she was sobered considerably by the sight of her sister’s eyes going wide, and her stomach dropped.

Immediately Dawn was on the move, maneuvering through the crowd of guests and making her way hastily toward her sister. Marianne appeared to be fuming, and Dawn cheered silently for her as she neared. Then Lord McGregor seemed to materialize at Marianne’s side, and Dawn slowed her pace. If Marianne had looked angry, the Lord of Windcrest looked absolutely livid. He took Marianne’s arm and looked down at her affectionately, which Dawn was exceedingly grateful for, then turned his piercing gaze to the man in front of them, and even Dawn faltered for a moment. _If looks could kill_ , she mused as she paused to watch them.

Bog spoke to the man through clenched teeth as Marianne glared forward. The man—whom she was certain at this point was Roland—must have said something ghastly, for suddenly Bog looked as though he may explode. Then Marianne spoke, and he turned to stare at her with utter amazement, a look which melted into awed affection as she continued to verbally skewer her adversary. Roland, on the other hand, was backing away, and Dawn felt a surge of pride for her sister’s bravery and resolve. She started forward again as Lord McGregor’s attendant approached and escorted Roland out. She glared a large hole in the back of his head as he left, and she hoped he felt it.

Dawn perched herself on the edge of the dancefloor, her gaze flitting intermittently between the promenading couples and the looks of adoration Lord McGregor was affording Marianne. Her heart swelled—she knew that look well. Sutton had looked at her the very same way every single day since the moment they met, and Lord McGregor—though far more reserved—was a man transformed when he bestowed it upon Marianne. He looked younger, happier, even peaceful, and Dawn was genuinely thrilled for them both. She had lost herself momentarily in vision of picking out Marianne’s wedding gown when Lord McGregor offered her sister his hand instead of his arm. Dawn’s heart skipped a beat as she watched anxiously. Marianne turned red, bless her, but accepted his offer without hesitation, and Dawn nearly squealed with joy.

She sighed contentedly as she watched them take the floor, off in their own little world where there were no guests whispering about them, no expectations, no Roland. The music carried them away, and she was satisfied that her sister was in the best of hands. She would always come to Marianne’s side to protect her, but for now, she could see that Marianne no longer needed to lean on her. She didn’t need to lean on Lord McGregor either, for that matter. She was standing straight and tall, the way Dawn had always wished she would, knowing that she would be caught safely if she ever fell.

Sutton found her as she wandered around the outside of the dancefloor, and as the music came to a dramatic conclusion, they wandered into the dining room to find more champagne, blissfully unaware of Bog and Marianne sneaking like children away from the prying eyes of the party.

* * *

 

Bog felt a bead of sweat drip down his face from his temple to his jaw as he gazed down the barrel of Roland’s revolver. _Son of a bitch, damn it all_ …his mind raced with every profanity he had ever learned, though he kept his mouth firmly shut. He was acutely aware of Marianne, still backed against the far wall. She was as far away from Roland as she could be in the comparatively small space, and he was determined to keep it that way, even if it meant being shot. Roland was no fool, however; Bog doubted the sod would fire the gun carelessly for fear of drawing unwanted attention. He had said he wanted to ‘talk’, and as long as Marianne remained safely away from him, he would allow it,

“Do I have your attention now?” Roland sneered,

“I pray you will say your piece and be done with it,” Bog snapped, standing tall and letting his imposing figure punctuate his words,

“Patience is a virtue, friend,” Roland scoffed, “And I ain’t talkin’ to you anyway, so shut your trap and listen closely,” he turned his attention to Marianne and gave her an appreciative once-over, “My business is with you, buttercup,” he smirked,

“I have _nothing_ to say to you,” she growled, and Roland made a face as though he were pretending to consider her words before laughing her off,

“That’s where you’re wrong darlin’,” he stepped toward her, watching carefully as tension snapped through the air, crawling uncomfortably down Bog’s neck. He watched Roland like a hawk, motioning discreetly to Marianne to stay behind him as they slowly circled each other. Marianne jerked toward Bog reflexively, but immediately stilled when Roland’s grip on his gun tightened, his hand shaking slightly,

“Now, now, none of that,” Roland quipped, staring down his sites at Bog as he addressed Marianne, “You move again, and your old toad here loses an eye,” he warned. Marianne froze, anger vibrating through her entire body, hatred bursting from every cell. She drew a carefully measured breathe, inhaling slowly, and tried to keep her voice steady,

“Alright, Roland, I’m listening,” she said, trying desperately to tear his attention away from Bog, “Please, say what you came to say so that we can be finished with this. Please,” she put her hands up slowly, “What do you want?”

“Oh, now, that’s an easy one; I’m here for you, honey,” he grinned, and Marianne swallowed audibly,

“I am not going anywhere, least of all with you,” she retorted, and Roland’s eyes flashed menacingly,

“Wrong again, buttercup. You and I are gettin’ hitched and that means you do what I say,” he spat, delighting in the way all the color drained from Bog’s face. Bog’s brow furrowed as he considered the likelihood of there being any truth in Roland’s words, and his gaze flickered to Marianne’s face. She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—she didn’t even appear to breathe as he watched her,

“I assure you that you are gravely mistaken, Roland. We are _finished_.” She stood a little taller despite Roland’s look of disgust at her words, “You have taken everything from me, save for the love of my sister and the clothes I left my father’s house with,” she bit out, and Bog’s heart ached for her. Marianne lowered for hands and motioned to the room around them, “I have found generosity and unparalleled compassion here. This place is my home, and you will not take me from it,” she asserted firmly, and Bog didn’t dare move as he awaited Roland’s response. Roland was livid; his eyes had gone dark and a menacing scowl distorted his obnoxiously perfect face,

“You listen to me, _sweetheart_ ,” he spat back at her, “In the old windbag’s will he left everything to you, and he left _you_ to _me_ ,” he said pointedly as he stared Bog down, “So your little holiday is over,” he stepped toward Marianne again, turning his eyes away from Bog to meet her gaze, and Bog jumped at the opening.

He darted to his right, grabbing Roland by his outstretched arm and yanking him forward as he swung his fist around. It collided hard against Roland’s nose with a solid CRACK a split second before they were deafened by the immediate report of the colt firing. The bullet blew a hole in the back of a chair sitting a few feet to Marianne’s left, and she clasped her hands over her ears, taking the opportunity to rush forward and pry the gun from Roland’s hand. Roland spat blood and cursed as he jabbed his free fist sharply into Bog’s stomach and knocking the wind out of him. Bog wheezed and struggled to keep his hold on Roland as the younger man wrenched himself free and lunged for Marianne.

Marianne held the colt in both hands, trying desperately to keep them from shaking as she aimed, waiting for a clear shot at Bog’s assailant. Roland broke free a second later, and in a panic she squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger. The shot went high, and she felt the revolver being yanked from her grasp as a large palm snapped harshly across her face, sending her reeling to the side. Her hands flung out as she tried to catch herself, but she was too disoriented to keep her head from smacking soundly against the wooden floor. Bog roared from somewhere nearby as her head spun. There was the sound of a struggle as the two men fought, then several loud grunts followed by a THUD as one of them hit the floor. Marianne’s head lolled to the side and she could see Bog sprawled across the rug, blood streaming from his nose and dripped down from a gash on his forehead. Roland stood over him as Bog propped himself up, and he pressed the barrel point blank against Bog’s head. She wanted to scream, to dig her fingernails into Roland’s face and make him beg her for forgiveness. She tried to force her body to cooperate as she attempted to get up, but her vision blurred and she collapsed.

“Why are you doing this?” she heard Bog asked weakly from across the room, “You already destroyed her once, is your life so lacking in purpose that your only enjoyment comes from ruining her life all over again?” he demanded, and Roland chuckled darkly,

“Not her life, partner, _yours_ ,” he replied viciously as Bog’s brows knit in confusion,

“Speak plainly, you ill-mannered sod,” Bog grit his teeth, and Roland grew more and more frustrated. He leaned in closer and spoke through clenched teeth,

“Because she chose you,” he seethed, “I was through with her and she didn’t matter anymore—I had her father’s house, his money, his position…and then I hear rumors of little miss Marianne making a new life for herself at Windcrest Manor,” mock reverence dripped from the words as he spoke them, “and all my hard work was thrown back in my face,”

“You didnae want her,” Bog replied, his voice low, “It wasnae your business where she went or who she kept company with— “

“No, but it was _YOU_ ,” Roland bellowed, shocking Bog into silence as he repositioned the gun under the kneeling man’s chin,

“ _What does that bloody matter?!_ ” Bog roared in response, and Roland snarled, sounding nearly feral, “They both…chose… _you_ …” his voice trembled dangerously, and Bog paused. _Both_?

“This,” he motioned toward Marianne, who appeared to be unconscious, “was serendipity at its finest, truly,” he mused, making sure to keep his gaze trained on Bog down the barrel of his gun, “Not her fault, when it comes right down to it, but I can honestly say that I care nothing for what happens to her now. If I had known she’d bring you back to haunt me, I might not have bothered with her in the first place,” he rambled, his voice wild and shaking as he drew back the hammer of the colt, "And while I'm sure taking her as my wife will bring me _great_ pleasure," His eyes narrowed “I’m here because of Lorna,” he hissed, and Bog’s heart nearly stopped. His vision blurred, and his breaths came unsteadily as every aching, debilitating memory attached to his late wife came flooding back,

“Lorna,” he breathed, barely audible. He looked up into Roland’s eyes and saw the hatred burning there, but also the sadness behind those flames, and for a brief moment he nearly empathized with him as a fellow soul in mourning, “You knew her?” he asked weakly, and Roland’s upper lip curled,

“You didn’t deserve her. You don’t deserve anyone,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking.

Bog’s mind vaguely registered the sound of clamoring footsteps and shouting from the foyer—the guests had no doubt heard the shots that had been fired, but with the drawing room still dark and unassuming, everyone seemed to be heading outside. If Roland didn’t fire again, no one would know where they were. His train of thought was brutally derailed as Roland struck him in the head with the side of the revolver, sending him crashing to the floor. Roland was coming undone at the seams, and looked absolutely savage as he pulled Bog up by his lapel to spit in his face as he spoke,

“I _loved_ her,” Roland grit his teeth as Bog met his gaze, caught off guard by his admission, “I was nothing, no title, no rank, no prospects, but I loved her so God damned much, and _she loved me_ ,” he enunciated his words, burning them into Bog’s mind as his face contorted in pain, “I begged her father to let me marry her, but what did I have to offer? He said he’d sooner see her on the street than give her to me, and he turned me away,” Bog tried to make it to his feet, but Roland shoved him back down to the floor and began to circle him slowly, keeping the colt trained on Bog’s head, “That didn’t stop us though, even after that bastard married her off to a _certain Lord_ ,” he said pointedly, stopping to shush himself before going on, “Don’t want anyone interrupting us,” he said in a hush. Bog wasn’t sure if he was talking to him, or himself, “We saw each other every chance we found, until one day she came to me sobbing about being with child,” Bog’s face held a grim expression as he  listened. His stomach twisted sharply at the thought of Lorna having been unfaithful to him; he had loved her so much it had made him blind, convinced him that one day she could learn to love him. His very heart had beat for her while hers beat for someone else, and then…

“It killed her,” he said weakly, his voice breaking, “I killed her,” he put his shaking hands over his face, and Roland laughed maniacally, sending guilt and despair coursing through Bog’s entire body,

“Incredible! How can you still not understand?!” Roland howled, “ _I’m_ the one who killed her!” he cried with another unsettling laugh. Bog could scarcely process the words. He tried to block out Roland’s keening voice, but it was no use, “What else could I do?” Roland ranted, unraveling fast, “She was carrying another man’s child! And then she had the nerve to try and _leave me_?! For _YOU_?!” he exclaimed, gesturing wildly and waving the gun about carelessly, “I couldn’t have her, and I sure as _hell_ wasn’t giving her to _you_ , so I—“

Something inside Bog snapped, and as the world cracked in half and came crashing down around him, a fiery rage with an intensity he had never known exploded violently and rippled through him. He clenched his jaw so tightly that it might have hurt of his mind had not been so keenly focused elsewhere. In the next instant he had kicked Roland clear across the room, sending the revolver flying toward Marianne, who still hadn’t moved. Bog hurdled over the desk between them and grabbed Roland by the throat, dragged him up off of the floor and threw him against the wall. The mirror behind the younger man rattled loudly, and Bog pressed his forearm against Roland’s neck to keep him in trapped,

“You… _what_?” he growled, unable to keep his searing hatred from lending its fire to his words. Roland smirked silently, and his head was forced violently against the wall, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” he roared,

“You already know,” Roland rasped, spitting blood onto Bog’s waistcoat as he spoke, “Her deranged father made it perfectly clear. I didn’t even have to threaten him, he just naturally assumed you were the villain,” he grinned manically as he waited for Bog to catch up, “I do so appreciate you taking the blame, old sport,”

“…poison,” Bog realized, and the cruelty of it all came flooding back to him. The cold, accusing stares, the isolation, the guilt, the bitter, never-ending loneliness forced on him by the entire town. It had singed his soul and bent him into a gnarled husk of a man, so far gone he had believed that he could never come back from that oblivion.

But Marianne had proved him wrong. She was _everything_ ; She was the smell of the earth after the first rain of spring, a sparkling ray of sunshine cascading warmly through the curtains of his study, comforting him when he had hidden himself away. The soft touch of her hand and the tenderness of her lips against his had encouraged him to lift his gaze to the light, as he had not dared to do for many painful years. Bog knew with certainty that Roland had never had the Marianne that he did, never even bothered to discover her. The pathetic man before him had nothing, and _was_ nothing. Still, Bog knew that, for his sanity, he would need to hear Roland out until the end,

“How?” he demanded, but Roland simply scoffed out a cold laugh. With a growl Bog grabbed Roland by the lapels and threw him to the floor, then grabbed his left hand and twisted it sharply behind his back. Roland howled in pain as Bog held him down, “How did you get to her here?” Roland struggled against his steadfast grip,

“Even for a Lord, it seems that it can be quite difficult,” his voice was strained as he bit back the pain radiating through his arm, “to find trustworthy servants,” he chuckled breathlessly. Bog shoved Roland against the floor with a sound kick to his backside. Roland flopped forward and hissed in pain as his face connected with the floor, his teeth cutting through his bottom lip. He stumbled as he forced himself up onto his feet, only to come face to face with the barrel of his own gun, and elegantly deadly extension of Bog’s slender arm,

“Get up,” Bog bade firmly, and Roland stood, hands raised in surrender, scowling. Bog considered his options as quickly as he could. He could keep Roland in the study and got to the door to seek help, but that would put the unstable bastard too close to Marianne. He could force him toward the door, but he would probably try to run. Thankfully the resurgence of noise approaching meant he didn’t have to figure it out,

“The door,” Bog motioned with the colt, “open it,” Roland, still shaking with hysteria, kept his eyes fixed on Bog as he moved slowly toward the door. Suddenly Roland’s eye darted to the other side of the room and widened,

“Bog?” came Marianne’s weak voice, and like a simpleton Bog turned to look at her instinctually. In that moment Roland had pushed past him, knocking him aside, and grabbed ahold of Marianne where she teetered. Bog regained his balance and swung the revolver around to aim at Roland just as the belligerent intruder produced a small dagger from within his waistcoat and held it to Marianne’s throat. Bog went white as a sheet as he saw Roland press the blade against Marianne’s pale skin. His stomach knotted and his heart beat furiously.

“Let ‘er go, lad, you said your quarrel was with me,” Bog commanded fiercely, his accent thick with ire, “if you call yourself a gentleman, accept your loss with at least your dignity, if no’ your honor, intact,” Marianne stood stiffly as Roland held her tightly around the waist, using her as a shield from the colt that was now aimed at them both. The blade pressing into her throat, precariously close to drawing blood, was not half so unpleasant as the feeling of Roland’s arm wrapped possessively around her. The indecency of it made her feel ill, and drove the panic from her mind, replacing it with fiery resolve,

“How does it feel, Barnabas?” Roland jeered, his informal and entirely-too-familiar address curling Bog’s lip in disgust, “to know you will be losing the woman you love to me all over again?” he cackled wildly.

Roland began to circle once more, tugging Marianne along with him. She gave Bog a meaningful look meant to convey her wish for him to keep calm, and then she silently scanned the room for a weapon, a distraction, an escape… _anything_ she could use to get herself and the man she loved away from their crazed assailant. As they turned slowly, tensely about the room, Marianne suddenly found herself standing before a small side table adorned with an aged doily and a Venetian vase bursting with flowers.

Her gaze flickered quickly between Bog and the vase, and the older man smirked,

“I willnae be losing anything, lad,” he retorted firmly. Marianne grabbed the vase with both hands, shocking the man who held her captive, and hurled it over her head, ducking forward and effectively smashing it over Roland’s head. A strange sort of surprised, strangled cry escaped from Roland’s mouth, which hung agape with shock as he collapsed, nicking Marianne’s skin with his dagger as his arms dropped heavily. Marianne felt nothing, however, as she jumped quickly away from his unconscious body. Bog lowered the revolver with a relieved sigh and, after making sure that their attacker would not be waking anytime soon, dropped the gun entirely as Marianne rushed toward him. She threw her slender arms around his neck and he, in turn, wrapped his protectively around her waist. Fierce relief and an overwhelming feeling of gratefulness overcame him as he held her.

Marianne trembled in his arms, her breathing unsteady, and he smoothed a gloved hand over her hair, whispering gentle words of comfort into the crook of her neck. After a moment, Marianne drew back and took Bog’s face in her hands,

“I was so afraid,” she began, sobs threatening to steal the breath from her words, “that you were going to be killed,” tears welled in her eyes and Bog leaned in to kiss them away, “I’ve never…been…” Marianne’s breathing became more and more erratic as she sank to the ground, Bog still holding her, “…so _afraid_ …of…of _anything_ ,” she choked out as she shook, and Bog closed his eyes, wishing he could absorb her sadness and rid her of its sting.

Marianne let out a surprised squeak as Bog gathered her into his arms and cradled her against him, lifting her into the air as if she weighed nothing,

“B-Bog, wait, I beg you. You don’t— “

“You cannae walk, Marianne, please donnae fret about it,” he said, smiling kindly at her. He was right, her strength seemed to have abandoned her. She nodded silently, and gave in to the temptation to rest her head wearily against his shoulder as he carried her toward the parlor entrance. Before they could reach it, however, Dawn suddenly came bursting through the doors, followed closely by Sutton, Griselda, and Plum. They collectively examined the scene before the; Bog beaten and bloody, carrying a disheveled and exhausted-looking Marianne, and Roland lying unconscious on the rug, bleeding and surrounded by pieces of the broken vase.

Everyone began to move at once; Sutton immediately retrieved the revolver and went to stand watch over Roland where he lay. Griselda tutted and grimaced over Bog and Marianne’e wounds, then hurried away to fetch some emergency medical supplies,

“Lord knows if we have any bandages. One doesnae exactly expect young ladies and gentlemen of breeding to get themselves into situations such as this,” she grumbled as she left the drawing room.

Plum excused herself to alert the authorities and fetch a doctor, stating excitedly that she could not have asked for a more thrilling and unpredictable welcome. Bog scowled at her words, but she chose to ignore him as usual. Dawn, however, rushed to Marianne’s side, all worried looks and forehead kisses, tight embraces and exclamations of concern,

“What in God’s name _happened_ here?!” she inquired ardently, tears spilling down her cheeks as she grasped Marianne’s hand tightly, “Are you well, Marianne? Oh, no, your throat!” she sobbed, covering her mouth with both her hands,

“Dawn, please,” Marianne tried to comfort her, “I promise you that I am quite alright. A bit shaken perhaps, but Lord McGregor ensured my safety,” she turned to smile at Bog affectionately, “quite spectacularly, too,” she said softly. Bog smiled sadly,

"I didnae..." he trailed off, and Marianne's smile fell as she remembered the horrible things Roland had confessed to. It was the cruelest thing she had ever heard, and she could see that Bog was ready to break under the weight of it,

"Bog," she whispered, but he didn't meet her eyes. He couldn't. He set her down gently and kissed her hand,

"Are you quite sure you're alright?" he asked solemnly, and Marianne nodded, concern creasing her brow, "Good," he breathed. He bowed quickly and turned to leave, ignoring Dawn's protests,

"Wait, please! What happened? Marianne?" she asked desperately, but Marianne's attention was fixed on Bog's back as he retreated to his study.


	11. What the Heart Wants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for quick updates! This chapter was challenging.The outline practically wrote itself, but tweaking it took some time and considerable effort. Nevertheless, I am very pleased with the result, I hope you will be, too! Thanks for all the continued love, reviews, and kudos, guys!!

Marianne’s mind reeled uncomfortably as she watched Bog ascend the stairs and disappear. The guests whom had not already departed were being respectfully sent away with ‘Lord McGregor’s regrets and deepest apologies’. Dawn had given Marianne no peace after the authorities had arrived to retrieve Roland, spouting question after question and insisting on learning every tiny detail about what had transpired in the drawing room. Marianne recounted the sequence of events halfheartedly, turning to look worriedly at the bottom of the staircase, hoping that Bog would choose to rejoin them. She would then cast her eyes upward toward the third floor study when the knot in her stomach assured her that no, he would not be making another appearance tonight.

She cursed at herself silently for being so selfish, but she could no quell the unpleasant feeling of uneasiness writhing inside her. It made her feel nauseous, and she tried to make her breaths deep and even, but as the image of Bog, the man she loved, alone in his study and pining after another woman burned itself into her mind, she found herself drowning in the most shameful feelings.

Alongside the boundless sympathy she felt for Bog, she felt the cold curl of jealousy shivering inside her, which she fought against with all her might. What on earth gave her the right to be envious of Lorna? She had been Bog’s  _wife_ , his first love, and she hated herself for wishing that Bog would forget. Deeply embarrassed by her own thoughts, Marianne excused herself quickly and made her way upstairs to her drawing room. Dawn and Griselda watched her go, their protests ignored, knowing that it would be a difficult night for everyone.

* * *

 

Bog paced in his study, feeling both incredibly anxious and duly lethargic. The conflicting combination was infuriating, and he let out intermittent exclamations of frustration and despair as he moved unsteadily around the room,

“That son of a…he…Lorna, I’m _so_ …” he trailed off, unable to hold onto a single train of thought for more than an instant, let alone form a complete sentence. His breathing was labored, and he felt as though his innards were attempting to explode from his body and flee in every direction at once.  _How could he? How_ dare _he?!_  His mind reeled as he finally staggered backward and collided with his desk. It rocked back against his weight, but held him steady as he turned to lean heavily against it. His hands squeezed into tight fists, turning his knuckles white, and with a cry of anguish he swept his arms haphazardly across the desk, pitching everything onto the floor. Papers flew into the air and pens scattered across the floor. His ink well landed with a THUD on the thick carpet, the ink spilling out and seeping into the fibers. Books went flying and landed clumsily, tripping over their covers as they tumbled across the room, and there was a loud crash as his desk lamp shattered against the wood floor.

He snatched a smooth, stone paperweight from the edge of his desk where it had somehow managed to avoid his tirade, and turned to throw it with all his might through the glass window behind his armchair…but he stopped short when he saw a dim light glowing inside the greenhouse.

He stood frozen for nearly a minute, letting his breathing slow and his mind settle, before lowering the hand that held the paperweight. He dropped it with a THUNK onto his desk and put a hand to his head.  _Marianne_ , he thought, remembering that he’d left her downstairs and run away.

He had needed to think, needed to spend time reconciling Roland’s confession with the events that had occurred as he remembered them, and with all his heart, he did  _not_  want Marianne to see him as he did so. It was so incredibly unfair for her to be forced to bear witness to his mourning for Lorna, to have to watch him sob and pace and drown in his past as he had spent so many years doing before her arrival. He didn’t want to revisit that time, or even acknowledge that it had occurred…but he knew he needed to, for the sake of Lorna’s memory, and for his own sanity. He needed to grieve all over again, and he hoped Marianne would understand.

This development had not necessarily complicated his relationship with Marianne, but it had certainly brought back the pain from the ordeal of his first marriage. It reminded him that there were people in this world who thrived on the misfortune of others, and revealed to him just how far he had come from believing that there could not possibly be an exception. He was grateful to Marianne, and even to Mrs. Everett for opening his eyes to the truth, and for proving him wrong.

_Even so_ , he reminded himself begrudgingly, _there still exist people who would sooner see an innocent woman and her unborn child perish slowly and mercilessly than let others find happiness_. The gruesome image of Lorna doubled over and screaming curses at him while holding her stomach through her blood-soaked gown flashed through Bog’s mind, and he screwed his eyes shut against it, willing it away,

“ _Bastard_ ,” Bog choked out, his thoughts turning to Roland. He had never hated a person so deeply before, and although he despised the sensation of it burning within him, he knew that the feeling deserved to be there. He would simply have to accept it.

_At least he’s been locked away_ , he thought, finding a surprising amount of solace in the fact that justice for what Roland had done would no doubt be served quickly.

He decided, almost as an afterthought, to write to his acquaintance in Edinburgh—an attorney he’d met some years ago during the dealings with Lorna’s father—and ask if he had any useful suggestions for such a predicament.

There were several things for him to consider and sort out, the most important of which was finding out which of his staff Roland had bribed to commit such a heinous crime. It was unthinkable, and he still struggled with the concept of such a betrayal from within his own home, but he forced himself to accept it and focus.  _I’ll have to interview the staff, contact their previous employers, cross-reference their papers with any information I can…ah_ , he paused, realizing with a groan that this venture would amount to nothing. After Lorna’s death and in the midst of her father’s implications of Bog, Griselda had flown into a fit of rage and fired the entire household staff. She had spent nearly two months interviewing and rehiring for each available position, careful to employ only those who she deemed to be trustworthy, discrete, and above all, excellent at their jobs. She would explain what had happened to each and every candidate, and then ask if they had any doubts about Bog’s innocence. If there were any hesitations, any sideways glances, she dismissed them immediately.

“Whomever it was disappeared long ago, surely,” Bog mumbled, cursing the heavens for not allowing him his revenge. As it was, he had absolute faith in his current staff, and knew with certainty that none in his employ would dare betray him in such a manner. Still, his thoughts strayed to Marianne, who had made Lorna’s old rooms her own. What was she doing at this moment? What was she thinking? Was she pacing, deep in thought as he had been? Was she lounging on the window seat watching the garden? Was she perched on the love seat where Lorna had preferred to take her _tea_? Bog gulped audibly as his concern for Marianne flared.

Blast it, why had he  _left_  her there? She had been attacked and nearly kidnapped, for heaven’s sake! Surely she had countless questions plaguing her at this very moment, and where was he? Locked away in the darkness of his study,  _again_. He pounded his fists against the desk, wishing he wasn’t so unbearably weak, and then rounded swiftly and made for the door. He would be careful to take his time and accept what had truly become of Lorna, but he would find his strength and do so with Marianne by his side.

Abandoning her would be pitiful and unforgiveable, and it certainly would  _not_  bring back the dead.

He refused to let himself fade away again. He would  _not_  let this development consume him, no matter how painful, and he would not lose himself to despair. Doing so would ruin the man he had become, and it would utterly destroy Marianne.  _Never_ , he vowed. He had sworn, both to her and to himself, that he would never in his entire life do a single thing that would hurt her, or compromise their love. After all,  _she_  had been the one to pull him out of the pit of darkness that had swallowed him so completely, and he would be damned if he let her slip through his fingers just as he was cresting the horizon.

* * *

 

Somewhere above her, Marianne could hear the faint pacing of Bog’s footsteps. She had locked the door to her drawing room and curled up on her side among the faded cushions of her couch, still dressed for the evening. She was sure the lace wings flowing from her back and wrists would be wrinkled, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She wished deeply that she could go to Bog and comfort him, offer him some sort of relief from his pain, but she didn’t dare interrupt his grief.

Conflicted as she was about the situation at hand, she knew that he had every right to lock himself away mourn. Now that Bog knew the truth, that Lorna had been slowly murdered before his eyes by a man who claimed to have loved her, Marianne had no doubt that he would reliving the nightmare of her death all over again.

She thought once more about her immediate feelings on the matter, and shame washed over her once more. She shook her head and compelled herself to see reason. Lorna was not another maiden in the town for Bog to court. She was not Marianne’s rival, not her competition. Lorna was gone—it was not the woman that Marianne feared, but rather the memory of her that Bog still kept locked away inside his heart. However, she knew firsthand that one did not love any two people the same way, and to be afraid that Bog would not love her in the manner he had loved his late wife was pointless and selfish. He loved her, she knew he did, and that was all she would need. What Bog needed from her more than anything was her love and companionship. He would need her to support, and—

Suddenly there came a cry of anguished rage from Bog’s study, followed by the sound of things being knocked onto the floor. She stared upward with wide, worried eyes, and flinched when something large and glass crashed to the ground a moment later. She squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a sob, no longer able to contain the sadness she felt. She wept for Bog, who had seen the woman he loved snatched mercilessly from his arms, and who had shouldered the blame for it for so long…and she wept for Lorna, a woman she had never known, for the agonizing circumstances of her and her child’s deaths.

Her heart ached for all of them, the budding family that had never been given the chance to bloom. How must it have felt, to know that their child was dying inside her and having no way to stop it? All while the poison stole her own mind as well? It was far too terrible to think on.

Sobs shook her as she cursed Roland’s name out loud for his inhuman cruelty, realizing with a painful twist of her heart that he may never have returned to the Manor I she herself had not taken up residence there. She wondered if Bog had come to this realization, and the pain in her chest intensified. Would he speak to her? Would he even see her? Would he turn her out of his home for plaguing it with such unpleasantness? And if he did blame her…would he ever forgive her? Did she deserve it?

She hid her face in her hands and wept as quietly as she could, but before long she was startled by a soft knock on her door. She held her breath, hoping it was Dawn who knew that knocking twice without an answer meant ‘leave me be’. A second knock came a few moments later, and Marianne released her breath slowly, closing her eyes and curling herself into a ball on the couch,

“Marianne?” came Bog’s anguished whisper from beyond her door, and her breath caught, causing a surprised sob to escape her lips, “Marianne?” Bog’s tone was more urgent as he tried to door, finding it locked, “Marianne are you alright?” he called.  _How is it that_ you _are worried about_ me? She wondered guiltily as she pushed herself into a sitting position, wiping the tears from her eyes. She crept quietly to the door and laid her hand against it gently,

“I would ask you the same,” she breathed sadly, and she heard him pause and sigh, resigned,

“Please open the door, Marianne,” he pleaded softly, “I cannae bear to have you kept away from me at this moment,” Marianne’s heart lurched at his words, but she kept herself in check,

“I am afraid you must bear it, Sir, for I cannot bring myself to look you in the eye. Not until…” she trailed off, a quiet sob stealing her breath,

“Until?” Bog asked, sounding as though he had pressed his forehead against the outside of the door. Marianne inhaled and exhaled slowly,

“…until I am certain that you have forgiven me,” she whispered, barely audible, “and until I have forgiven myself,”

* * *

 

Bog was silent for a few long moments, then he was jiggling the door handle again firmly,

“Forgive you for what? Marianne please, this is no fault of yours!” he insisted,

“But it  _is_!” Marianne cried, “If I had never come to Windcrest, Roland might never have come back here. I am so  _sorry_ , Bog,” her voice broke over her words, and she leaned her forehead against the door, “You may never have been burdened with the truth…if I had not been here to lure it to you. Perhaps it would have been better if I had never come h—“

“No,” Bog interrupted adamantly, “Do not dare to say that I would have been better off without you,” his voice was strained, and he stared at the door intensely, as though attempting to see through it, “Listen to me, please,” his voice was soft and low, desperate to persuade, “You are a God-send, Marianne, a blessing I count every second of every day,” he placed his hands lightly on the door, giving up on the handle, “My life was empty, completely devoid of happiness or laughter or  _anything_  meaningful…and I sincerely thought that I would die there, in that place, with nothing and no one,” he heard her sob once more and for a moment considered simply kicking the door down. He willed her to believe him, “My marriage to Lorna left me with scars, Marianne, and I cannae promise you that I will ever be rid of them,” he closed his eyes, “but I  _can_  promise you that you are undoubtedly the dearest a person has ever been to me, and I will gladly spend the remainder of my life proving it to you,” Marianne was silent, and Bog’s chest tightened uneasily as silence fell between them.

At length, there came a soft  _click_  from the handle of the door, but Bog did not move to open it. Instead he stepped back, clasped his hands behind his back, and waited.

Marianne emerged quietly, meeting his gaze nervously. Her lovely gown was rumpled and her hair was slightly disheveled, but the mere sight of her sent relief rushing through him, grounding him. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her cheeks shown damp in the candle light, but she was beautiful and elegant as she gazed at him,

“Are you alright?” she asked softly, and he gave her a melancholy grin,

“Not in the slightest,” he said honestly, huffing out a disillusioned laugh that brought Marianne back to the edge of tears. She wrung her hands nervously,  
“I…I do not have the words to—“

“Please, don’t,” Bog choked out, his voice breaking.

He watched her face as she neared him, and reveled in the soft warmth of her hands as she wrapped them around his own and peered up into his eyes. Her expression nearly broke his heart,

“I am so sorry, Bog,” she whispered, and he broke. He pulled her into his arms and held her as though she might disappear if he loosened his grip even the slightest bit. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, letting the turmoil inside him burst free in the safety of Marianne’s embrace. She clung to him in return, and it wasn’t long before his sobs began to shake them both.

* * *

 

“I needed to know the truth,” he whispered unsteadily, “and because of you, I have it. Thank you… _thank you_ ,” Marianne bit back her own tears as she held Bog tightly, cooing at him and even boldly pressing soft kisses into his hair where she could reach. His embrace never loosened around her, and she contented herself with the feeling of how tall he was as he leaned down into her, and how utterly protected she felt. Of course, at the moment, she knew that  _she_  was the one offering protection and relief. The tall, elegant, tender man in her arms had come to her, despite the sorrow inflicted upon him not hours earlier, and had asked after _her_  well-being. Marianne could not think of any kinder or more selfless attention having ever been afforded to her, and it made Bog all the more precious in her mind.

The stood together in that way for a time, neither speaking nor moving, save for the sound of their mingled breathing which eventually fell into sync as Bog’s slowed and quieted. The silence between them grew rather pensive after a while, and Marianne inquired softly after Bog’s thoughts,

“…It could have been you, Marianne,” he replied softly, and Marianne’s brow furrowed in confusion,

“What do you mean?” Bog slowly lifted his head from her shoulder to look her in the eye. His right eye was swollen and bruised, and there was a gash across his left cheekbone. Marianne winced as she inspected his injuries, thankful he hadn’t been torn through by any bullets. He ignored her fretting and carefully brushed his fingers against her injured cheek. She paused and winced again, and Bog leaned in to give it a feather-light kiss,

“He struck you without a second thought, love. If he had come upon you when you were alone…” he trailed off, pushing the vile thought away before it enraged him again. But Marianne’s hands were there, caressing his face gently, avoiding his wounds. Her honey-brown eyes were warm and kind as she drew closer and stared at him meaningfully,

“You _were_ there,” she said, reassuring him, “and I am _here_. Both of us are safe because we are able to protect one another,” she smiled, and Bog grinned back before a chuckle broke free from deep in his chest,

“Quite right, too; I havenae ever seen a lady wield a vase before, Marianne,” he quipped, and Marianne turned red remembering how her instincts had taken over when Roland grabbed her,

“He deserved it,” she said firmly, looking down, but Bog laid a finger gingerly under her chin and tilted her head back to meet her gaze once more,

“You were magnificent,” he assured her, thoroughly impressed with her quick thinking, and he leaned in to lay a gentle, affectionately reserved kiss on her lips. _I love you_ , it said wordlessly, and something clicked together in Bog’s mind.

* * *

 

The idea made his heart stutter and his hands shake, and as he calmly bid Marianne goodnight and gazed after her until her parlor door was secured with her behind it, his mind buzzed in an unruly fashion. It wasn’t as though he had never before considered the idea, but the events of the evening had brought Bog face to face with his greatest fear: the possibility of being separated from Marianne.

Somewhere downstairs a great clock struck midnight, and he headed for his study. The guests had been shooed away, Dawn was no doubt giving Marianne a piece of her mind at this very moment, and he knew his mother would be waiting for him in his study to do the same.

He swung open the door to his study, slipped inside, and closed it again quickly. As he’d expected, Griselda was ready and waiting,

“ _Barnabas Archibald McGregor_!” she bellowed, stepping up to him and grabbing his face. She turned it this way and that, roughly examining his injuries, then pushed him away in a huff, “What on _earth_ were you thinking?!”

“Mum, I— “

“Of all times you could have chosen to beat a man half to death, you chose _tonight_?! It was a disaster! We had to apologize to each and every guest, sent them all home we did,” she yelled as she began to pace back and forth, and Bog sighed,

“I am sorry, mum, sincerely. Listen, I— “

“I expect you to make a _grand_ apology to your poor aunt Silvia! And you must write a letter to every single guest, explaining what a complete— “

“ _Mother!_ ” he cut her off, clasping her hands in his and forcing her to look at him, “Listen to me. I give you my word that I will apologize properly to Aunt Plum and all of our guests. I will begin first thing in the morning, and I promise that I will explain _everything_ , but right now I need your help,” he said quietly, failing to hide his boyish grin. Griselda narrowed her eyes,

“With what, Barnabas?” she asked suspiciously, and Bog’s expression softened considerably,

“I want to ask Marianne to marry me.”


	12. A Nightmare and a Song

Bog dozed restlessly in his armchair. Sleep had evaded him during the night, only granting him a reprieve when he had collapsed into his chair after exhausting himself pacing. Excited as he was about the idea of proposing to Marianne, a fear still plagued him…the transgression that had ultimately cost Lorna her life; her infidelity. He was exceedingly grateful that Marianne had not touched upon the subject during their conversation, as he himself had not yet mustered the courage to really consider it, but now it tortured him as he tossed and turned uncomfortably.

He had known of Lorna’s lack of enthusiasm about their arrangement, and had made every conceivable effort to ease her mind. He treated her with tenderness and respect, offering every affection and attention she would accept. He had fallen in love with her so quickly—it would have been difficult not to. On the surface, she was polite, modest, accomplished, beautiful…and nothing else, nothing deeper. Tentative and careful as he was not to overstep her boundaries before she had accepted, him he had been blind to the truth. He had been married to a façade, an empty shell; the woman who he thought he loved had, in truth, been giving her true self to another man since long before their engagement. He had so hoped that she would give him the chance to become agreeable to her, but he had been at a severe disadvantage from the very start.

She had come to him one night, however, two or so months after their wedding day,

 

_She was clearly nervous, and somewhat disconnected as she crept into his private room. She wore only her night dress and a silken robe, and her dark blonde hair hung freely around her shoulders. Bog stared, properly shocked, from where he lay reading in his bed as she approached him silently. She said nothing, and bog’s only clue as to what she might be thinking was the look of solemn determination she wore._

_“Lorna? What…are you…is anything wrong?” he asked concernedly, growing increasingly flustered as she paused to discard her robe. It slid to the floor in a heap, and Bog gulped, shuffling rather awkwardly to the far side of the bed as Lorna pulled back the duvet and sheets to join him,_

_“L-Lorna, what are you...?” he trailed off as her intentions became clearer. Once she had slipped beneath the covers she pressed herself against him shamelessly, and Bog—who was too shocked and pleased to do much of anything else—wrapped his arms around her and eagerly accepted the kiss she offered. His mind raced, wondering what could have possibly come over his young wife. She had been so consistently distant, occupying herself each day quite efficiently without his help, with hardly a word between them, and she had_ never _come to his bed before. He was thrilled, to say the least, but at the same time did not want her under the impression that he expected her to perform her ‘duties’ as a wife before she was want to do so. He could not lie to himself and say that he did not crave her affection, physically and otherwise, and that he would not be ecstatic to have his own children, but he was far too gentle a soul to ever force himself upon a woman. He broke the fevered kiss, his breathing a bit labored, and looked Lorna in the eye,_

 _“You don’t have to…rather, I don’t_ expect _you—“_

_“Barnabas, hush,” she whispered, cutting his words short, “I am a married woman who wishes to lie with her husband,” she leaned closer, “if he will have me,” and with that Bog had no further comment. Lorna made it clear that she cared little for foreplay aside from stimulating him into action which, all things considered, didn’t taken very long at all._

_Their first night together was relatively brief, but altogether wonderful in Bog’s mind. He took it as a sign that she was acclimating to her new circumstances, and to their relationship. She had even curled up beside him and fallen asleep there, to his delight, though in the morning he discovered she had returned to her own room._

_She visited him every few days over the span of the next month, and with each visit he learned gradually how to please her. Slowly but surely, he noticed small changes in her behavior that suggested she was growing to enjoy his company, and she even began to greet him with a soft smile when she entered his bedchambers._

_It was nearing the end of the summer months when Lorna informed him that she was with child, and Bog was overjoyed. Since the death of his father, he had always been thrilled by the idea of having children of his own, eager to pass along the wisdom and love his own father had instilled in him. Boy or girl—he did not care which—he would cherish them as the precious treasures they would be. Lorna seemed to be genuinely happy upon learning the news, but Bog noted that something in her eyes hinted at hesitation, almost fear. Such a reaction was, he supposed, to be expected of a first-time mother, and he quite forgot about it._

_Not more than a week later, Lorna began to feel very ill. Griselda tutted gently,_

_“Donnae fret, dear, this is perfectly normal when a woman is expecting,” She encouraged Lorna to rest as much as possible, and to drink plenty of tea to sooth her stomach. Bog felt badly for her, but found comfort in his mother’s reassurances. Over the few weeks, however, Lorna’s condition worsened considerably. She began waking up dizzy and confused, and her attendants would report having found her on the floor near the window holding her head and rocking back and forth. She would lash out at anyone who approached her, and push Bog away, yelling at him not to touch her._

_She eventually forgot where she was, and why she was there, and she would thrash and cry for her father. Doctors were called in at any expense necessary, and despite Bog’s disbelieving protests, every diagnosis was he same: Arsenic poisoning. He refused to believe it, insisting they were wrong, and demanded that they run their tests again._

_But nothing changed, no alternate explanation could be found, and as word spread, the eyes of the townsfolk turned accusingly to Bog. He stayed awake for days at a time, wracking his brain for something, anything that might help, and all the while losing the uphill battle with the rumors that spread like wildfire. No one would see him, no one would listen, and then one morning the house was awoken with a start by the sound of Lorna’s anguished screams._

_Her attendants found her first, curled up and trembling in the middle of her bed surrounded by blood-soaked sheets. The night dress she wore clung to her legs as the blood spread, and her maids tried to help her to the washroom, which she mercifully allowed._

_Bog had flown down the stairs with impressive speed at the sound of her panicked cries, but was stopped in the doorway by an attendant before he could enter, catching only a glimpse of his blood-drenched, screaming wife before he was locked out .He pounded on the door and roared at his staff to let him enter, but it was no use._

_It was nearly two hours later that the doctor finally arrived, and by that time Lorna’s screams had ceased. Bog stared blankly forward, his eyes glassy, as the doctor explained that she had lost far too much blood, and that he also suspected internal hemorrhaging. He reported it all very clinically, and in a very cold manner, making it perfectly clear what he believed had happened. Soon the entire town’s tongues were wagging about how Lord McGregor had murdered his wife with poison. Lorna’s father had been notified by express mail, and had come to collect his daughter’s body. He cursed at Bog for being a loathsome, dishonest, sadistic bastard, and returned to town to spread his hate. Griselda was positively livid that anyone could implicate her son for his wife’s death, but Bog knew the truth. He had never raised a finger against his beloved wife, never done_ anything _to her…except…_ Oh _._

Bog forced his eyes open, his breathing ragged, desperate to escape the gut-wrenching memories of the day of Lorna’s death. He hadn’t dreamt about it in quite a while, at least not since the night after Marianne had arrived. He had expected this to happen, to be tormented by his memories, but the shock of it still disturbed him greatly. He rubbed his eyes groggily and turned to glance out the window. The first dull, grey light of morning was just beginning to creep across the sky, and Bog groaned—it was still  _very_  early.

He closed his eyes again, but knew sleep would be impossible now. His joints protested stiffly as he extricated himself from his uncomfortable slump in his armchair, and he moved quietly toward his washroom so as to avoid stirring anyone, even his attendants. He discarded his rumpled, day-old clothing and examined his bare chest and abdomen in the mirror. There was a large, brown and purple bruise over his ribcage on his left side that was tender and aching, but aside from the scratch on his face and his swollen eye, he found no other injuries. For a man of his age, he supposed, he was in rather good shape. He had always been tall and thin, but never lanky. During his years away from the world he had surprised the entire household by gradually taking on the odd task around the manor; helping to carry in deliveries to the kitchen, manning the pump at the well, even helping prepare meals every now and then. The years of physical exertion showed in the lean muscles of his upper body—and he could make a bloody good scotch pie.

Such activities had been halted by Griselda when they learned of Marianne’s imminent arrival, and Bog found that the days passed unbearably slowly with nothing of consequence to fill them—until she actually arrived, of course.

A soft smile played on his lips as he thought of Marianne, and his tumultuous thoughts seemed to settle. He took a deep breath and let the cool morning air force his body into alertness, then wandered back to his bedroom. Glancing out his window he eyed the greenhouse, and immediately his thoughts returned to the proposal, and his plans to somehow convince Marianne to accept it.

Originally, he had meant the for the transformed greenhouse to simply be a surprise; the final, glimmering addition to the garden that Marianne had worked so hard to restore. Now, however, he had a new plan that he liked much, much better. He dressed headed quietly down the stairs, throwing on a coat as he went.

He glanced at Marianne’s door as he swept past, a swirl of conflicting emotions flooding through him once more, but he swallowed them as best he could, keeping them at bay. The idea of marriage would remain bittersweet, he thought, unless he could somehow persuade Marianne to be his, and to stay with him forever.

* * *

 

Marianne sat on her window seat with her right leg tucked underneath her, wrapped in the thick, goose down duvet that she’d pulled off of her bed. She had woken up groggy and still exhausted, and dragged herself out of bed to get a fire going in the parlor fireplace. As she waited for the room to warm up, she’d curled up beside the window to watch the first rays of sun spill over the far wall of the garden. The world beyond the window slowly brightened, turning from muted blues and greys to dusty oranges and pinks, illuminating her face as she stared absentmindedly at the foliage.

A sudden commotion in the far corner of the garden caught Marianne’s attention, and she shifted forward, tilting her head to get a better look. She caught sight of Bog near the greenhouse carrying two large bags of soil. They were slung casually over his shoulders, as though they weighed nothing, and Marianne was nothing short of impressed. He disappeared into the greenhouse for a moment, and there was a faint, muted  _thud_ , after which he reemerged empty-handed. Curious and intrigued, Marianne darted from the window and quickly donned one of her simpler gowns. She twisted her hair into a loose chignon, pinched her cheeks a few times for color, and then crept hurriedly down the stairs.

As she swept through the ballroom, she glanced around, almost sorry for the lack of decoration and delighted chatter of the guests. Considering all that had occurred over the course of the evening—both good and bad—however, she decided she had experienced more than enough excitement to last her the next six months at least.

As she reached the rear doors, one of which had been propped open, she paused in the shadows to watch Bog as he worked.

He emerged from the greenhouse once more, pulling his right arm across his chest with his left in a stretch, and Marianne’s heart thumped loudly at the sight of him. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean muscle, pulled taught beneath relatively fair skin. The top few buttons of his shirt appeared to not have been bothered with at all. Sweat glistened on his brow as he ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out of his face, and he wore heavy work boots the likes of which Marianne would not have guessed he would own.

Suddenly another man appeared—Marianne recognized him as the head landscaper—and she shrunk further into the shadows,

“Are you quite certain you wouldnae like any help?” the shorter man asked, motioning toward the greenhouse,

“Thank you for everything you have done, you have my deepest appreciation, Mr. Garett,” Bog gave his companion a warm smile as he shook his hand firmly. Mr. Garett wished Bog and his household well and departed, leaving Marianne more curious than ever about what Bog could possibly be up to. Bog turned his back to her, taking a moment to scrutinize the greenhouse, and Marianne nearly lost herself in the sight of him silhouetted against the morning sun.

He had one hand on his hip while he leaned the opposite elbow on the shovel wedged into the dirt beside him, looking more rugged than Marianne had ever seen him. There was something pleasantly surreal about seeing him this way; there were no airs, no mask of tempered amiability, no nervously affectionate glances in her direction—he appeared to be utterly in his element, so at ease, and it made Marianne realize that there were still aspects of this man that were mysteries to her. His enigmatic nature always seemed to catch her off guard—just when she had found an answer, he presented her with a new conundrum. He was fascinating and charismatic, and Marianne treasured the opportunity she had been afforded to become the person who knew him better than anyone.

She slipped away quietly as Bog headed back toward the greenhouse, the sound of dirt crunching under his boots echoing faintly through the ballroom around her.

Her first thought was to return to her room, but she had barely escaped the first time without waking Dawn, and she dared not press her luck. Instead she wandered into the drawing room, curious as to what state it was in. She turned the handle and pushed, and the door creaked open. The parlor was very dimly lit, but Marianne could see that the furniture, at least, had been righted. The ruined chair and broken vase and been removed and replaced respectively, but the jagged edges of the hole Marianne had accidentally blown into the wall above the desk still gaped disconcertingly. She averted her gaze, not wishing to remember having very nearly murdered someone.

She turned her attention to the piano forte in the opposite corner of the room which, miraculously, had not been damaged. She gingerly lifted the fallboard and brushed her fingers against the keys, letting her middle finger delicately press down on the F key an octave above middle C. The single note hung in the air, and as it faded she could hear how truly quiet the manor was at that hour of the morning.

As she stood staring at the polished ivory beneath her fingertips, lost in thought, her hair slipped free of its pins and unfurled down her back. Startled, she whipped her head around and jumped again when she saw someone standing in the doorway.

* * *

 

“Forgive me, I didnae mean to frighten you!” Griselda insisted as Marianne stared at her wide-eyed, clutching her hands to her chest, “I wouldnae have expected to see  _you_  up so early, dear, let alone my son,” she said, motioning vaguely toward the garden, and Marianne exhaled, relaxing,

“Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you,” she said with a slight bow, but Griselda waved her off. She sometimes wished the poor girl would learn to be more at ease around her, and knowing what she did about Bog’s intentions—she was beyond ecstatic—made it difficult not to scold her outright for not simply addressing her as ‘mother’,

“Donnae be silly, Marianne, you’re no bother at all. I heard the piano and thought perhaps I might be privy to a performance,” she grinned, and Marianne chuckled hesitantly,

“Oh, I do apologize, but I did not intend to play. I would not wish to wake anyone,” she explained,

“Pish posh,” Griselda retorted, “Everyone enjoys waking to music, even your sister,” she quipped, and Marianne laughed,

“ _Especially_  my sister,” she agreed, taking her place at the piano with a shrug. She settled into a relatively easy piece and, after some prompting from Griselda, who happened to be familiar with the piece, she began to sing along,

 

“ _Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

_Sober and grave grows merry in time,_

_Remember me to one who lives there;_

_He was once a true love of mine,_ ”

 

Griselda closed her eyes and listened, pleasantly surprised at the quality and clarity of Marianne’s voice. As the lilt continued, Griselda became aware that she was not the only person entranced, though Marianne took no notice; Innis poked her head around the doorframe from the foyer, eyes wide, and Greer joined her before long.

 

“ _Tell him to make me a cambric shirt,_

_Sober and grave grows merry in time,_

_Without any seams nor needle work,_

_Then he’ll be a true love of mine,_ ”

 

Hurried footsteps alerted Griselda to her son’s approach, and she bit her tongue to keep from laughing giddily. She knew Bog would never admit it, but he was as much a lover of pretty singing as she was. She opened her eyes to smile knowingly at him as his steps slowed and he came to a silent halt in the doorway.

 

“ _Tell him to find me an acre of land,_

_Sober and grave grows merry with time,_

_Between the salt water and the sea strand,_

_Then he’ll be a true love of mine,_ ”

 

Finally, Mrs. Everett came scampering down the stairs excitedly, her expression one of pure joy. Bog glanced down at her as she bounced on her toes at his side, offering a fond grin before turning his attention back to Marianne. Griselda had half expected him to simply stare in wonder at Marianne as she sang, knowing her son’s heart was likely melting at the discovery of yet another of Marianne’s talents. He did not, however, look at all surprised. Instead he smiled affectionately at her, and at length he even stepped forward and sat beside her at the piano.

He let her finish, and Griselda smirked at the way Marianne’s face turned red once she realized Bog was there. The song she sang came to an end, and the entire household staff—all of whom had materialized throughout the duration—applauded, much to Marianne’s embarrassment. She covered her face with her hands as she laughed, and Bog smiled so genuinely, so happily that Griselda’s heart swelled with gratitude.

After a few moments, Bog leaned over and quietly posed a question to Marianne. She seemed to consider what he had said, as though she were trying to recall something, then nodded hesitantly. With a grin he turned and readied his fingers over the keys, then began to play Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Marianne prepared, and after a few measures she joined him in the upper register. As skilled as they both were, it was not a perfect performance, but they smiled and laughed and moved together as they played, and it was the most beautiful rendition of the piece that Griselda had ever heard.

* * *

 

Silvia had returned from town after seeing to the logistics of Roland’s incarceration, and while Marianne seemed more than happy to begin the lessons that Silvia had promised to provide, she was given the day to rest, and calm her mind. Bog was grateful to his Aunt for being so understanding. Not that she was otherwise, or in any way unkind on any given day. She was simply domineering and resolute by nature. This fact combined with her effervescent personality made her a force to be reckoned with, and her reputation as such served her well in her endeavors, whatever they might be.

Upon her return, she summoned her companions to the drawing room and regaled them with news about their uninvited guest,

“Tragic, really,” she began dramatically, “I’m told Mr. Blande spent the night in a cell, screaming at the top of his lungs. He confessed to everything, and I believe the whole experience may have robbed him of his better sense,” She eyed Marianne warily, “He is bound for bedlam,”

“What excellent news!” Griselda chirped, clasping her hands together happily,

“Good riddance,” Dawn added harshly, eliciting a nod from Bog,

“Quite,” Marianne looked down and said nothing, and the look of pained resignation on her face sparked an uncomfortable ache in Bog’s chest,

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, gently placing his hand at the small of her back,

"Marianne?" Dawn asked, pushing forward and taking her sister's hands, "This is such a happy ending to this nightmare, are you not pleased?" she studied Marianne's conflicted expression, and huffed when she received no response. Griselda cleared her throat,

"Well, it has been quite an eventful few days. Let us retire, sister," she gave Silvia a meaningful look that was met with rolled eyes and exasperated agreement. Dawn was about to speak again when Griselda took her by the arm,

"You, too, dear," and with that, the foyer was nearly empty once more. After a few quiet moments, Marianne shook her head with a soft laugh,

“I pity him,” she said simply, and Bog’s brow knit in confusion, “Even after everything he has done, everything he has put us through…I cannot help but feel very sorry for someone who has so completely lost their way,” Bog heaved an exasperated sigh,

“He tried to kill us, Marianne,” he said flatly, brushing his fingers gingerly across her cheek, “He assaulted you,” his tone was softer, and Marianne sighed,

“Yes, he did, and I have never met someone so deserving of a lifetime locked away as he,” she replied pointedly, looking Bog in the eye, “Even though I pity him, I do not do so willingly. It is in my nature I suppose, it is difficult to explain…I am simply too kind a person,” she teased half-heartedly, looking down again. Bog glanced around quickly, then drew Marianne into an easy embrace, cradling her head against his chest and gently stroking her hair. She leaned into him comfortably and wrapped her arms around his waist, and he sighed. He wondered briefly when such public displays of affection had become so commonplace and acceptable to them both, but he dared not challenge it. He kissed her hair softly, then pulled away to meet her gaze,

“Far,  _far_  too kind, lass,” he agreed, “He deserves  _nothing_  from you,” he assured her. She smiled gently, then her expression became careful and inquisitive. She laid a soft hand tenderly against his cheek, and he leaned into her touch,

“How are you?” she asked compassionately, and Bog’s heart stuttered. He had most certainly seen better days; his heart and mind were equally exhausted, and there was a pounding in his head that he had not been able to assuage. His day of labor in the garden had been a welcome distraction, and he had enjoyed the reprieve it had allowed him, but it left his body aching and tired. However, considering the more pressing matter on his mind, he could confidently and truthfully say that he was fair, at the very least. He assured her of as much, and while her brow knit with worry, she offered him a smile that reassured him that all would be well again with time. He accepted it happily, and as they climbed the stairs together, he found himself anxious for morning to come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too terribly exciting, I know. The proposal is coming, I promise!! Thanks again to everyone who reads/reviews/kudos/bookmarks, it always makes my day!! <3


	13. A Plea and a Proposal

Bog paced anxiously across the floor or his study, glancing intermittently at the large clock near the door, and mumbling to himself. If one were close enough to hear, they might surmise his words to be a sort of apprehensive reassurance, not unlike what a parent might say to their young child the first time they ride a horse;  _You can do this, I have faith in you, but God in Heaven I wish this idea had never crossed your mind_.

That was not  _entirely_  true, of course—Bog did not regret his desire to wed Marianne. Rather, it was the obligation of tradition that preceded the proposal itself that was proving to be somewhat frightening. Bog ceased his pacing and paused in the middle of the room, then he sighed and looked out the window. Why should speaking to a woman about this matter be so unnerving?

“Especially one so slight as Mrs. Everett,” Bog chuckled, picturing the young woman. She was very nearly the definition of petite; she was quite thin, and had a pleasing willowy quality which she and Marianne shared. She stood almost a head taller that her husband, but was still not quite the same height as her sister, who only came up the Bog’s chest. She was cheerful, and dainty, and the last person anyone would suspect of ferocity, but Bog had seen it. Particularly when it came to Marianne’s well-being, Dawn had a fire within her that burned so silently—and yet so brightly—that any man would be wise to heed its warning.

Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to speak to women about, well, a great many things; on the outside they were all porcelain skin and light-hearted songs and practiced amiability. Underneath, however, was a great mystery—one could never know what they were truly thinking or feeling because they had been raised to hide it so very well.

It was in this way that Marianne and Dawn differed from other ladies he had met, Bog supposed. Neither sister seemed to have any trouble expressing exactly what was on their mind, or in their heart, and Bog found it incredibly refreshing. He had long believed that being direct and straightforward with ones thoughts and intentions was the best practice to employ, and had been pleasantly surprised to meet young ladies, of all people, that shared this opinion. It was for this reason that Bog was so nervous about he and Dawn’s imminent conversation; there would be no illusion of complacency, no façade of happy agreement. Mrs. Everett would tell Bog _exactly_  what she thought about the idea of becoming his sister-in-law, and his apprehension swelled again and he resumed pacing.

He glanced again at the clock and took note of the time. There were still five long minutes until Mrs. Everett was due in his study, and Bog groaned.

Three hundred agonizingly slow seconds later there was a firm knock on the door, and Bog drew and released a deep, calming breath as he strode over to open it. Mrs. Everett curtsied politely before entering,

“My lord,” she chirped, and Bog bowed,

“Lovely to see you, Mrs. Everett. Please come in,” he gestured for her to sit, and she obliged happily,

“Thank you,” she perched herself on the seldom-used couch across from Bog’s armchair and gazed around the room, admiring his books. Bog sat himself down and waited patiently for her to meet his eye, and when she did her expression was discerning and slightly smug, yet decidedly business-like,

“Are you well this morning, my Lord?” she asked casually, and Bog tried to match her nonchalance,

“Aye, thank you, very well,” he replied evenly, crossing his left leg over his right, “And yourself?”

“Quite well, thank you. May I ask why you requested an audience with me?” she inquired innocently, and yet Bog could not shake the feeling that she already knew everything,  
“I have something of the utmost importance to discuss with you, Mrs. Everett. Something that requires a certain level of discretion,” he said tensely, and Dawn’s eyes brightened,  
“Oh, my, how intriguing!” she replied excitedly, and Bog grinned nervously,

“Aye, I suppose...I absolutely must stress the importance of secrecy, Mrs. Everett, even concerning your dear sister,” he gave her a meaningful look as her expression shifted from surprise, to inquisitiveness, to quiet amusement. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth as she took a moment to process his words,

“Very well, my Lord,” she leveled a pointed gaze at him, and he swallowed, “Let us talk about Marianne,” she said bluntly. Bog’s pulse skyrocketed, though he wasn’t at all surprised at her perceptiveness—he had expected from the beginning that she would see right through him,

“Ah, y-yes,” he cleared his throat and Dawn’s grin widened, “That is…yes, that is what I wished to speak to you about,” he admitted, turning red as Dawn giggled freely,

“I have never seen a gentleman look so nervous in all my life, my Lord. What could possibly have you so flustered?” she asked teasingly, and Bog swallowed again, his mouth dry, “Even on the day that my darling Sutton proposed to me, he was not _nearly_ so—“

“Mrs. Everett, please,” he said sharply, his embarrassment getting the better of him. Dawn went quiet and watched him passively. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat, scolding himself for being so impertinent, “Forgive me for speaking harshly, it was not my intention,” he said gently, “I simply—“

“Then what, pray tell,  _is_  your intention, my Lord?” she asked flatly. Bog paused, considering carefully how he should answer—he knew a loaded question when he heard one,

“My,” he cleared his throat again, forcing himself to muster his courage, “ _Intention_ , Mrs. Everett, to be quite frank, is to ask your permission…to marry your sister,”  _there_ , he thought,  _I’ve said it_. He waited, terrified, and watched Dawn’s expression as she considered his words. She looked…surprisingly unmoved,

“And if I say no?” she asked firmly, and Bog’s entire body tensed, “What then?” He faltered.  _What then_? His hands began to shake at the thought of being denied a closer relationship to Marianne, and he balled them into fists. If Dawn refused, what could he possibly do? Her approval was far too important to Marianne for her to simply overlook its absence, even if he wanted her to. He doubted he would survive such an endeavor, and for the life of him he could not understand how or why he was not more prepared for such an eventuality,

“Are you angry, My Lord?” Dawn asked calmly, and Bog met her eyes, pleading silently,

“I am…frightened, Mrs. Everett,” he admitted with a self-deprecating chuckle. Dawn seemed taken aback,

“Frightened, my Lord?” she asked, confusion and empathy cracking her mask of indifference,

“Aye,” he stood slowly and clasped his hands behind his back. His anxiety getting the better of him, he began to pace again, but this time he paused by the window. He stared at the low-hanging clouds as they drifted lazily over the hills in the distance, trying to quell the uncomfortable twisting of his stomach, “I pray you will not deny me your blessing,” he said quietly after a moment, “For I fear that it may be the only thing to recommend me as a suitable husband,” Dawn listened quietly, and although Bog could feel her eyes on him, he could not bring himself to turn around,

“You care very deeply for my sister, do you not?” Dawn asked, standing and joining him by the window. Bog nodded, keeping his gazed fixed on the scenery as she approached,

“My love for her is endless. I am no’ sure I could survive without her now,” he said softly, and Dawn smiled at the sentiment, and the tenderness in his voice,

“You are very kind to her,” Dawn said gently,

“I couldnae treat her otherwise, even if I wanted to,” he replied,

“You welcomed her into your home when she had no one,” she continued, and Bog nodded pensively,

“Aye,” he glanced sideways at his young guests, “Of course I— “

“You go out of your way to put her at ease, and have put yourself in harm’s way to protect her,” Dawn cut him off as she looked at him pointedly, “And despite everything you yourself have been put through, all the pain you are shouldering even now,” she gave him a sympathetic look, and he inhaled sharply as his brow furrowed, “Despite all of that, you see only Marianne,” she smiled and closed her eyes, “You speak to her with affection, and treat her with such compassion as she has not known in a very, very long time. She thinks the world of you, sir, and If your actions thus far have not already won her over, my approval will not change anything,” she said simply, and before Bog could protest she took his hands in hers and squeezed, “Even so, I can assure you that you have it,” she concluded, smiling brightly. Bog was unsure of how to respond, and only managed to nod once before relief and gratitude overtook him. He lowered his head to his hands, feeling as though some of the weight he carried had been lifted,

“Thank you, Mrs. Everett, thank you. I could no’…I  _would_  no’ be able to do this if you had truly refused. I fear I would have been forced to embarrass us both by begging you to reconsider,” he lifted his head and smiled humorously. Dawn laughed,

“A gentleman does not beg, my Lord,” she chided, and Bog shook his head,

“I would happily beg if it meant the difference between a life with Marianne and a life without her,” he grinned, and Dawn squeezed his hands once more before letting go,

“I will leave you to your proposal then, shall I?” she curtsied respectfully and headed for the door. He watched her go, and as soon as he heard the soft  _click_  of the door, he felt an intense rush of excitement and anxiety. His entire body began to tremble, and he shook his head with a laugh. Giddiness, that was the feeling rushing through him, and it was absurd and wonderful all at once.

* * *

 

Marianne sneezed suddenly, and vaguely remembered an old wives’ tale about attributing such things to being the topic of someone’s conversation. She brushed the idea off as she ascended the stairs toward her room, and her attention was drawn by the sight of Dawn practically skipping down the stairs from the third floor. She was smiling brightly and seemed awfully excited about something. Marianne grew suspicious,

“You certainly are in high spirits today,” Marianne said implicatively, and Dawn cocked an eyebrow and grinned in a way that told her sister that she was absolutely up to something,

“Well it is _such_  a lovely day,” Dawn replied, ignoring Marianne’s probing stare,

“Dawn,” Marianne warned,

“One’s disposition is a statement, Marianne,” Dawn rambled, clearly avoiding the subject, “and a lady’s smile shines brighter than any brooch, you know,” Marianne sighed exasperatedly as her sister neared,

“Dawn, really, what is—“ she was cut off as Dawn took her hands, her expression suddenly different. It was warm, and blissfully affectionate, and…proud?

“Smile, Marianne,” she said simply, “today is a day to smile,” Dawn squeezed her sister’s hands quickly and then fluttered down the stairs, leaving Marianne properly confused,

“What on earth…?” she muttered to herself as she retreated to her room.

*

Dawn all but danced down the stairs as she left her dearest sister in a befuddled state behind her. She paused as she reached the entrance to the drawing room, and snuck a peek back in the direction she’d come. The door to Marianne’s rooms clicked softly closed, and she hummed a giggle before swinging herself around the corner and into the parlor. Griselda sat, as she often did, practically sinking into the luxuriously spongy cushions of the large lady’s armchair nearest the fireplace. She was nose-deep in a novel, but immediately looked up when Dawn came around the corner,

“Well?” she snapped her book closed and abandoned it on the side table, “Was it as I said it would be?” she asked excitedly, Dawn’s exuberant smile giving her the answer,

“And more, my Lady. Very agreeable,” Dawn tittered, and Griselda’s eyes sparkled with delight,

“Was it now? Goodness, child, tell me what was said! I must know this instant!” she waved her hands wildly, motioning for Dawn to come closer. Dawn obliged happily, letting the older woman squeeze her hands in anticipation, Dawn glanced around the room in the practiced way of those who often indulge in scandals and fantastic secrets, then spoke lowly,

“He told me with absolute certainly of his love for Marianne,” she began, “and that he intends to ask her to be his very soon!” the two ladies shared and ecstatic squeal of sorts before she continued, “ _And_ …oh, my, will you believe me?” Dawn laughed, and Griselda huffed impatiently,

“Aye, child, I swear I will believe every word you say! Out with it, I beg you!”

“Well, your lovely, headstrong son asked for my _permission_ ,” she enunciated the word carefully, “as he would my father, God rest him,” she gushed, and Griselda gave her a disbelieving look,

“Did he? How very…how did you respond, dear?” she asked, and Dawn smirked,

“Perhaps it was cruel, but I teased him. I nearly refused to give him my blessing,” she admitted somewhat awkwardly. Griselda stared at her for a moment, then burst out in a hearty laugh,

“How horrible of you!” she cried, smacking Dawn’s hands playfully, and Dawn chuckled,

“I was…well, I was rather shocked,” she said with a small smile, her dramatism waning, “I was expecting questions on how he should go about making the proposal, or perhaps which waistcoat would best suit the occasion,” She looked Griselda in the eye and saw that her companion obviously shared in her appreciation and awe, “You have a wonderful son, my Lady,” she grinned, and Griselda nodded, closing her eyes,

“Aye, he has become a very fine man. To pose such a question to a lady…but you _are_ her only family, dear. I suppose, all things considered, it cannae be thought of as so _very_ strange,” Dawn backed away and perched on the end of the nearby couch,

“He does not seem to think that Marianne will have him. Even after everything they have shared, all the time they have spent together here,” she whispered, and Griselda scoffed,

“Utter nonsense, dear, I assure you. I dare say I have seen the way those two look at each other. Bog was done for the day your sister arrived, and Marianne, well…I could not entrust my son’s heart and health to anyone less worthy. She has helped him in ways I cannae express, and I am so very grateful to her for loving him so well,” she said softly, and Dawn nodded earnestly in agreement.

* * *

 

The afternoon sun warmed the manor as Marianne made her way leisurely down the stairs, pausing to look up and admire once more the ornate splendor of the hall. Gilded frames of gold glinted wildly in the light that streamed through the windows high above her head, and the deep crimson of the walls seemed to smolder around her. She sighed happily, having slowly begun to feel at peace once more within the walls of Windcrest. She had truly come to think of this place as her home, and she desperately hoped that Bog would let her stay…that he _wanted_ her to stay.

They had exchanged words and promises of love, and he had indeed proved his _physical_ attraction to her—she blushed profusely at the thought. _The next logical step would be marriage_ , she mused, finding herself utterly delighted by the thought of Bog down on one knee asking for her hand. So much had happened, however, that she found it incredibly selfish to imagine such a thought being at the forefront of his mind. _Do not be foolish_ , she warned herself, lowering her gaze and continuing on her path toward the parlor. He had far too much on his mind to be considering such things. She would be sure to show him her affection and gratitude as often as he would accept them, and perhaps one day…

“Marianne,” a voice called from behind her, and she turned to see Bog making his way down the stairs after her.

*

“Good afternoon,” she smiled reservedly and curtsied,

“Is everything alright?” Bog asked, studying her expression. She seemed somehow sad, and it immediately put him on edge,

“I am well, though perhaps not quite myself today,” she admitted with a small smile. Though Bog’s eyebrows knit together with concern, he offered her his arm cheerfully, doing his best to hide the apprehension that threatened to overflow at any moment,

“I believe I may have just the thing to lift your spirits,” he grinned amiably, eliciting an affectionate smile from Marianne as she took his arm,

“I welcome it,” she said as he led them toward the ballroom. As they entered the vacant hall, he felt Marianne giggle quietly against his side,

“Marianne?” he asked curiously,

“It struck me as quite humorous that whenever you and I set foot inside this room together, something… _interesting_ almost always happens,” he glanced down and found her flushed as she spoke, and turned red himself as he recalled the truth of her words,

“How delicately put,” he chuckled, clearing his throat, “I hate to disappoint you, but we are headed for the garden today,” he teased, pleased with the impossible shade of red tinting Marianne’s cheeks,

“Pity,” she replied, so softly that Bog was unsure if he had heard correctly. His heart hammered loudly in his chest as he reminded himself of the dangers of the game they were playing, delightful though it was. It was exciting, of course, and if she accepted his proposal, then they could…

Bog shook the thought from his head violently. That was not why he was doing this…at least…not _entirely_. He could admit—at least to himself, in the privacy of him own mind—that part of him wanted very much to take this woman to his bed and utterly ravish her until they were both too exhausted to move. The more sensible part of him, however, knew that such a thing would only be agreeable—not to mention appropriate—if certain traditions were followed, and certain vows were made _first_. He didn’t just want her, he wanted to _be_ with her, forever. Anything less would simply not be enough,

“Does this mean the mysterious greenhouse has been completed?” Marianne asked suddenly, jarring Bog from his thoughts,

“Perceptive as ever,” he quipped, and Marianne’s eyes sparkled eagerly,

“How wonderful! What sort of flowers did you plant? Are there any rare species? Something that does not typically grow here?” she asked excitedly, and Bog shook his head,

“Can I no’ simply surprise you?” he chided, bumping against her playfully,

“Well, I suppose if you _must_ ,” she teased back. As they drew nearer to the greenhouse, Bog’s heart began to beat frantically. Was he really going to go through with this? He glanced down at Marianne, smiling despite his fears at the fact that he was fortunate enough to be so close to her, to have been able to spend such ample time with her, and even to have somehow earned her affection. He  _had_  to do this. If he didn’t, and things continued as they were, not only would he regret it for the rest of his life and make them both miserable in the process, but…it was an incredibly selfish thought, but one day, she might leave him. She might find someone better, younger…someone more suited to her temperament and beauty.

Bog shook his head sharply. What on earth was he thinking? He was about to ask for the hand of the love of his life, and was busying himself by thoroughly insulting what he knew of her character. Marianne was kind, and honest, and compassionate—not that he wanted or needed her pity, especially concerning this matter, but above all he knew she was not a liar. Marianne had told him that she loved him, and though it was difficult and terrifying to put his absolute faith in the words and promises of others, he forced himself to believe it whole-heartedly. He did not think her capable of lying to him, not about this.

He began to shake as they reached the greenhouse door, and Marianne looked up at him quizzically,

“Is everything alright?” She asked, her expression one of affectionate concern. Bog met her eyes, looking properly bewildered, and couldn’t respond for a moment,

“I, ah…I hardly know,” he mumbled, reaching out to open the door for his companion. Marianne’s brow knit as she continued to study his face. He was flushed, and looked positively panicked. She laid a small hand against his forehead, causing him to start,

“Bog, I pray you will tell me what has unnerved you so,” she said firmly, moving her hand to cup his cheek. Bog looked into her eyes, letting their warmth ground him, then took a deep breath.  _She loves me. She promised. Have faith in her_ ,

“Come with me,” he breathed, taking Marianne’s hand and leading her through the door. Once inside, Marianne’s breath caught in her chest— _How is this possible?_  It seemed that they had completely left the world she knew behind, and entered a new realm. All around her were delicate, powder-pink Primroses, encompassing a precious fairy kingdom. Amongst the flora and fauna lay tiny makeshift houses fit for all manner of small magical beings. To her left there was a waterwheel, perhaps half her height, carrying water from the stream beneath it up onto a mesa where it flowed forward and out of sight. Marianne gazed around in awe as she rounded one of the trees— _trees!_ —and followed the small stream of gently flowing water to the back of the greenhouse. There she found a waterfall cascading into a pond surrounded by daisies and glistening stones, and one of her hands flew to her mouth in complete delight and utter surprise. Her eyes were drawn skyward by the twinkling of the sun through the canopy of leaves above their heads. There were carefully-smoothed pieces of stained glass strung up among the foliage, catching the sun’s rays and sending sprays of color dancing across the ground, and she was suddenly struck by a memory.

She remembered the day she had arrived at the manor, and how far above her head had been paintings of the land of fae, and a great battle in the midst of a garden. Looking around, however, she could see and feel that this was a peaceful place, and that no war was ever meant to be fought there. So much had changed since her arrival, and her eyes welled with tears as she realized that this place, this exquisite private kingdom was for  _her_.

Bog watched her lovingly, his heart beating excitedly as he discovered that his gift pleased her. Finally, after exploring her fairy garden, she turned to look at him. Tears gleamed in her eyes, and he immediately reached out to tenderly wipe them away,

“This…this place is  _beautiful_ , Bog,” Marianne said, her voice trembling, “How did you…why did you…?” she trailed of as Bog gently rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes,

“I wanted you to understand that you have a place here. I have ordered this garden to be tended daily and kept in pristine condition for the duration of your stay,” he whispered, taking her hands in his. Marianne stifled an overjoyed sob,

“I don’t know what to say,” she looked into Bog’s eyes as he opened them, and found them guarded, but full of unapologetic hope, "But it would be a pity to let such beauty fade simply because I am not here," Bog drew an unsteady breath and held her gaze,

“Then say you will not leave,” he said, his voice shaking, “Please stay here with me. I cannot bear to live without you,” Marianne stared up at him in shock, hardly daring to breathe. Was he…?

“What are you…asking?” she inquired softly, and Bog swallowed hard as he lowered himself onto one knee before her,

“I never wish to be separated from you, Marianne,” he said earnestly, reaching into his waistcoat and producing a small wooden box, “I fear my world would be dark and dull without you in it, and I cannot imagine living the rest of my life without you beside me,” He cleared his throat, trying to calm his chaotic heartbeat, “I will love you with absolutely everything that I am until the stars in the sky have shone their last, and the earth no longer turns. Would…would you do me the most magnificent honor…of becoming my wife?” he asked breathlessly. He opened the box revealing a large, oval amethyst gem set on a polished silver band. The gem was surrounded by tiny, delicate pearls of varying color. It glimmered mystically in the filtered sunlight, giving off an ethereal glow. Twin trails of tears ran down Marianne’s cheeks, and her heart overflowed with so much love that it ached. She was so overcome that she could manage only to lean over with her head in her hands and sob for a few moments. When she looked up again, Bog seemed wary. She sobbed a laugh and caressed his face,

“I wish you would not look so afraid,” she beamed at him, gently pulling him toward her until her lips pressed tenderly against his, then, pulling back only an inch to look him in the eyes, she whispered, “Bog, of  _course_  I will,” It was Bog’s turn to stare in disbelief, but only briefly, before he wrapped his arms around Marianne’s waist and hoisted her into the air. She cried out in surprise as he hooked one arm under her legs and cradled her against his chest as though she weighed nothing. He gazed down at her with tears in his eyes, wearing the most breathtaking smile she had ever seen,

"You are... _everything_ , Marianne, I cannae..." he laughed through sobs of relief and joy, feeling as though his heart would burst from his chest. Marianne ran the fingers of her right hand through his hair, brushing it away from his eyes and relishing in its softness. She was overjoyed, but she knew he was still pain. Roland had struck a devastating blow to both Bog’s heart and his mind, and Marianne had to know,

“Are you sure?” She touched a hand to his cheek, and Bog’s expression turned from elation and confusion and shock,

“Am  _I_  sure, lass?” he asked, dumbfounded, "Are ye serious?" Marianne looked away nervously, 

“The things that Roland said to you…I assumed your heart would long be in turmoil after hearing them, and,” she gathered her courage and met his gaze again, “And I would not wish you to decide now to marry me, and regret it once you’ve had time to heal,” she said firmly. She had no idea how Bog might react to her words, and watched him carefully. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded and kissed her forehead,

“Thank you,” he said softly, smiling tenderly,

“For what?” Marianne asked, confused,

“For taking my heart into consideration before your own,” he held her close, “But the idea that anything is this world could possibly make me give you up,” he gave her a meaningful look and cocked and eyebrow, “Is the single most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” He smiled sweetly, and Marianne blushed, studying the brocade of his waistcoat with intense concentration. He lifted her chin, coaxing her eyes upward to meet his, "Lorna is gone," he said, a pained look flashing across his face. Marianne felt a pang of guilt in her stomach,

"Bog, please, you don't have to--" Bog shook his head with a sad smile, and Marianne reluctantly let him continue,

"There is no use in wallowing over her passing, it is irreversible, and more importantly it is in the past.  _You_ are the reason I am able to face each day with my head unbowed. _You_ make me whole, and I would never, ever forsake you in the name of her memory," he said assuredly, and Marianne smiled wide. She was truly exquisite, and he watched her for a moment, his heart absolutely full of nothing but love for the woman in his arms. He leaned in close suddenly, taking Marianne by surprise, but paused just before their lips touched,

“So you’ll have me then?” he breathed, tickling Marianne’s lips with his breath. He felt her shiver in his arms, and her eyes softened,

“Yes, Bog, always,”


	14. Pushing Boundaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the ridiculously long hiatus. Sometime life just gets in the way you know? I got a new job, I moved...anyway, all this to say, I hope this extra long chapter will help you forgive me!

Dawn was absolutely beside herself with excitement. Marianne had returned from her turn in the garden with Lord Barnabus positively glowing with elation, and Dawn had not given her a moment’s rest since the door had clicked shut behind her, "

Oh Marianne, look at you!” she sang, “You look downright giddy, it’s indecent! What did he say? What did _you_ say?” Dawn clasped her hands around her sister’s desperately, all but swinging her about as she gushed, “You must tell me absolutely everything!” Marianne beamed as she perched herself on the love seat, tucking her legs up underneath her, and took a moment to breathe. Dawn curled up beside her, eyes shining with anticipation, and stared at Marianne expectantly, “Well?” she urged after a moment. Marianne smiled coyly and met Dawns anxious gaze out of the corner of her eye,

“I think you know exactly what happened,” she teased, causing Dawn’s brilliant smile to fall into a pout,

“Don’t be cruel!” she huffed, “You should never make unfounded assumptions, Marianne. I should not know what happened, for I did not tell him what to say, I merely gave him my permission to say it,” she nodded her head curtly as Marianne turned to look at her, her curiosity piqued,

“Permission?” she asked, and the mischievous sparkle in Dawn’s eyes returned,

“Oh, my, yes! He requested an audience with me to ask for your hand,” she recounted dramatically, “All nerves, the poor fellow, but unwavering to a fault. And…” she trailed off, her brow creasing,

“What is it?” Marianne probed. Dawn turned to look at her, an expression of sympathy and confusion on her face,

“He does not think very highly of himself for someone of his position,” she said thoughtfully, “Though I suppose that is to be expected given his past,”

“One could not very well expect him to consider his value when so many around him believed he was worthless,” Marianne added softly, reflecting on the similarities between Bog’s social isolation and her own. Dawn laid her hand over Marianne’s gently,

“I assume and suspect nothing about your regard for him, but I pray you will remember that it is not your responsibility to love him in place of the love he cannot give himself – it will ruin you both,” she said carefully, not wanting her words to sound harsh or disparaging. Marianne smiled and kissed her sister’s forehead,

“I agree, that is certainly not my burden to bear. There are certain kinds of love that, when sought outwardly, will only leave a person feeling hollow,” she gave a small, empathetic smile, “Bog and I have both had the…opportunity to learn this first hand. Neither he or I have ever been without love, we simply forgot how to find it within ourselves,” She squeezed Dawn’s hand reassuringly, “I believe we can help remind each other how to see it,” Dawn sighed wistfully the romantic sentiment, and was pushed away playfully as she began to tease Marianne and Bog for being ‘the perfect, brooding pair’,

“Enough!” Dawn exclaimed, hurling a pillow at Marianne with a laugh, “Have you accepted him, or haven’t you?” Marianne’s elated smile returned and she could no longer contain her excitement,

“Of course I have!” she laughed, her heart bursting.

“ _I knew it!_ ” Dawn squealed. She rushed over and threw her arms around Marianne, giving her a tight squeeze, “I never doubted you would! Now,” she said, her tone shifting suddenly. She pushed Marianne out to arm’s length, then circled her slowly, looking her up and down. Marianne caught sight of her sister’s mischievous smile and knew immediately that the gears in Dawn’s head were turning determinedly,

“Now?” she asked dubiously, and Dawn nodded enthusiastically,

“ _Now_ we have some work to do. First, I will need to take your measurements, then we shall go into town and choose lace and brocade. Then, of course, I’ll need to have a word with Griselda about a flower budget,”

“Dawn…”

“…and there’s the guest list to consider, cardstock for the invitations, planning the menu,”

“Dawn,”

“Oh, and of course the cake—“

“Dawn!” Marianne pressed her hand over her sister’s mouth and gave her a pointed look, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, and I know that if you have anything to do with it, the entire affair with be envied by all who hear of it, but I beg you to contain yourself until we have decided upon a date,” She pleaded gently not wishing to damage her sister’s ego. Dawn pouted for a moment, but soon brushed it off with a roll of her eyes,

“Very well, how can I say no to my most beloved and favorite sister?” It was Marianne’s turn to roll her eyes,

“Your only sister,” she corrected,

“Yes, and that is why everything must be absolutely _perfect_ , every last detail accounted for,” Marianne raised an eyebrow at her and Dawn smiled sheepishly, “After you and your Lord have set a date,” she grinned, and Marianne flushed slightly at her words. Dawn knew that Marianne had so long been given so little in the way of happiness, and she could not help but divulge in every given opportunity to remind her sister that she had finally found it. Taking advantage of Marianne’s momentary distraction, Dawn quickly plucked a soft measuring tape from the sewing drawer and held it up pleadingly, “May I at the very least take your measurements, my lady?” She asked, eyes wide and hopeful. Marianne let out an exasperated sigh, then stood up and raised her arms,

“Do your worst,” she said, and Dawn let out a delighted squeal.

* * *

 

“So, is it to be an English wedding, or a traditional Scottish ceremony?” Griselda said without even looking up from her sewing as Bog entered his study. He considered for a moment, then did his best to put on a cross façade as he answered,

“She said no,” he replied quietly, watching his mother’s face and trying not to give his joke away. Griselda’s face went pale, and her sewing clattered to the floor. Her head snapped up and she met his gaze unwaveringly, and Bog had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He watched her consider him for a moment, first with a look of utter heartbreak, then confusion, and then her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as she understood,

“You cruel, heartless man!” she yelled as she stomped over to swat him relentlessly on the arm, “Of all the horrible tricks to pull on your poor mother, my heart cannae take it! Tha cuid de nearbh 'tighinn rium, an dèidh a h-uile a rinn mi dhuibh, agus ag innse dhomh a leithid chronail a laighe mar a dhèanamh mo chridhe fois ann an leth! Cha bhi mi beò an seo!” She began pacing briskly as she ranted and Bog raised an eyebrow, bewildered. It had been a very long time since the woman had berated him in Gaelic, of all things – perhaps he had crossed a line – still he could not help but laugh heartily. Griselda glared at him as he clutched his sides, “I am pleased to see you find this so humorous,” she snapped as Bog approached her. He wrapped his arms around her gently as she protested, “Don’t you touch me, you ungrateful, son of a bloody—“

“Màthair,” he interjected, trying to calm her down, “I am deeply sorry for joking at your expense. It was cruel of me, and I should be drawn and quartered for causing you such harm, but please, if you must disgrace my good name, do so in a language my fiancée cannae understand,” he begged with a laugh. Griselda’s brow remained furrowed in anger, but she could not keep her overjoyed smile at bay. She wrapped her plump arms around Bog’s waist and held him tightly,

“I am so _happy_ for you, Bog, I cannae express it,” she began to weep while she held him, and Bog rubbed his hand in small circled on her back to sooth her, “You never deserved the things they said about you,” she sobbed, “And now they know how wrong they had it, the lot of them. Bog hugged his sniffling mother tightly, hoping that the silent, sentimental act conveyed even a fraction of the immeasurable gratitude he felt toward her. She had spent the past decade fiercely insisting upon his innocence, fighting for his veracity, and keeping the hideous rumors and prying eyes of the outside world locked firmly beyond the walls of Windcrest. Marianne— _his_ Marianne—had appeared at what could not have been a more opportune interval, sparing Bog from the same walls threatening to creep inside his mind and seclude him for good.

They parted as the bell for tea jingled whimsically from the hall, and the older woman tutted herself as she reached for a handkerchief, “No tears now,” she said brightly, pinching her cheeks in the mirror and smiling happily. She made her way across the room and swung the door open abruptly. Innis, who had been waiting patiently in the hallway for permission to enter, nearly dropped the tea tray as the door was unexpectedly flung open,

“M-My Lady?” she asked nervously, hoping she had not interrupted a delicate conversation. Griselda simply grinned at her,

“Where is my sister Silvia taking tea this afternoon?” Griselda probed with a grin,

“In the downstairs parlor, Ma’am,”

“Then we shall join her. Fetch our darling Marianne, won’t you?” she chirped, grabbing Bog’s arm and pulling him along behind her.

“Yes Ma’am,” Innis stammered, quickly making her way down to the second floor. Bog admired his mother’s talent for being able to shift her mood at a moment’s notice, but could not help rolling his eyes as she skipped down the stairs with him in tow.

* * *

 

Silvia Plume was a woman for whom the word ‘defeat’ meant absolutely nothing. She was creative and precocious, well-educated and quick-witted, and renowned for being one of the most accomplished and charming women west of Vienna. Nothing she desired was ever beyond her reach, and when she had come upon Miss Marianne Faedelle, she had seen a marvelous opportunity. A lovely young person whose reputation had been tarnished by ill-fated circumstances, and whose heart had been darkened by a failed romantic endeavor? It’s was simply to perfect a coincidence to pass up!

She and her dear sister—who would never admit to such a thing—had long suffered Barnabus’ disconsolate disposition brought on by the death of his young wife and unborn child, God rest them both. Silvia knew grief well, and could not fault her nephew for coping in the manner he saw fit at the time, but after a decade of egression from nearly every aspect of society, she began to grow restless, even impatient. Surely Barnabus was not content to simply live out the remainder of his life in utter misery? Any day now he will begin to be himself again, she had thought. He would wake up early to tend the garden, or play the piano for his mother after tea – any moment now… But the years passed uneventfully; the garden became a withered, mangled mess, and the halls of the manor darkened in the stale silence. There was no color, no vibrancy, no life, and Silvia was sick to death of it.

And so, she tucked Miss Faedelle securely under her wing and let everything else fall into place. It was a selfish, even dangerous risk she was taking, she knew that; if Marianne was not the match for Barnabus Silvia hoped she would be – or worse, if he fell for the young woman and she refused him – she feared his very life may be forfeit. But something had to be done, and she firmly believed that he would find a kindred spirit in Marianne. Misery loves company she assured herself. She had not, however, anticipated the seemingly impossible common thread connecting them to one another, completely unbeknownst to either party – Roland Blande. The improbability of this man’s involvement with both Lorna’s death and the Marianne’s misfortune – coupled with the fact that he had, in truth, been responsible for both – was astonishing, and left Silvia reeling over the serendipity of the entire affair. She was almost grateful to Mr. Blande for providing both closure and long-awaited answers to both her dear nephew and darling Marianne, though he remained, in her mind, nothing but a squirming, loathsome mass of tripe.

Thanks to him, they had their peace of mind, and the truth of their misfortunes, which was likely more than either party had ever dared to hope for. It was obvious to Silvia that the two had found comfort in each other long before her arrival at Windcrest – their coquettish interactions at the ball had revealed it immediately…so she was not entirely surprised when the entire household gathered around her in the downstairs parlor to impart the happy news of the couple’s engagement. Of course, she was nothing short of thrilled,

“How absolutely marvelous!” she gushed, rushing over to give both Marianne and Bog a squeeze in turn, “I have never been happier a day in my life!” It was wonderfully refreshing to see Barnabus smile so happily, his gaze constantly flickering over to his betrothed. Their edges were worn and frayed, but somehow, they fit together perfectly, and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever beheld. She glanced sideways at her sister and they shared a knowing smile.

* * *

 

“So, what is it to be? An English Wedding, or a Scottish romp?” Silvia asked with a wink, and Bog went pale,

“None of that nonsense, I beg you,” he said firmly, and Marianne turned to give him a questioning look,

“Now, now, you don’t even know what I was going to say,” Silvia teased, and Bog shook his head,

“I know precisely what you were suggesting, Plum, and I willnae subject Marianne, nor myself, to such mortification,” his words rang with finality, and Plum held her hands up in mock surrender,

“Very well, very well,”

“Are Scottish wedding traditions really so formidable?” Marianne asked curiously, and Bog prayed desperately that she would not try to convince him to participate,

“They are properly humiliating; treacle, feathers... _not_ for members of civilized society,” he said pointedly, and Plum rolled her eyes,

"In any case, I suggest a June wedding to ensure the prosperity of your union," she said matter-of-factually.  _Rather a lengthy_ _engagement_ , Bog thought, considering that August had only just begun. To wait nearly an entire year struck him as unnecessary, as well as highly undesirable. There existed methods by which their union could be recognized as legitimate until the day they were able to make their official vows, but in the face of both their circumstances, Bog felt it would be unwise to employ them, 

“Then what about handfasting?” Plum retorted as though she had read his mind, causing Bog’s face to go bright red. He clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat,

“Certainly not,” he said, the edge in his tone wavering. The idea of bedding Marianne while they remained technically unmarried was, he had to admit, pleasing in its own forbidden way, but was not his intention in the slightest,

“I have asked Marianne to _marry_ me, and that is what we have agreed to do,” he stood tall, hoping that somehow his impressive height alone might dissuade Plum from arguing any further. He peeked down at Marianne and saw her worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, her brow furrowed. Guessing at her train of thought, he softened his tone as he continued, “Lorna and I did not participate in these traditions, and neither shall we,” he took Marianne’s arm gently, hoping she found comfort in knowing that she was not being denied some sort of privilege that his first wife had been unequivocally afforded. Plum threw up her hands in a huff, and Griselda stepped forward with her own plea,

“Bog, darling, I understand your aversion to our more traditional, and,” she gave her sister a meaningful look, “frankly _outdated_ customs, but will you not at least let us have our pipes?” she asked amiably, and Plum perked up,

“Oh yes! Barnabus indulge us, I beg you,” she said animatedly as she scurried over to Griselda’s side, “You would not deny your beautiful bride such a treat on her wedding day, would you?” Bog reflected on their supplication, remembering how Lorna had forbid them from hiring a piper for their wedding. She had not been the musical sort – she did not sing, nor did she play the piano forte or the harp, and had deemed – upon only one hearing – that the pipes were ‘terribly loud’ and made a ‘frightfully hideous racket’. Marianne, on the other hand, had a genius ear, and a comprehensive appreciation for music – there was an excellent chance she would enjoy the music that the traditional Scottish instrument had to offer. A wide smile broke over Bog’s face as he looked down at Marianne, who appeared to be more puzzled than ever,

“Pipes?” she sounded almost frustrated at being the only person present – aside from Dawn, who had occupied herself with writing a letter to Sunny detailing the days’ events – who had not the slightest idea what was being talked about,

“Bagpipes,” he amended, a wonderful idea springing into his mind. He gently released Marianne’s arm and strode over to his desk, checking the time of day out a nearby window as he passed. He quickly scribbled down a short message and called for Greer, who appeared a moment later, “Greer, please take this message to Angus Garett in town. Let him know I will compensate him for his time,” he grinned, hoping that Mr. Garett was not too busy that evening,

“Right away, my Lord,” Greer replied with a bow before exiting swiftly,

“Why are you calling for Mr. Garett?” Marianne asked dubiously, and Bog chuckled, “I pray you will be patient, love,” he threaded his fingers through hers and brought her hand up to lay a soft kiss upon it, “I promise it will be like nothing you have ever seen or heard,” his eyes shone with excitement, and Marianne could not bring herself to protest,

“I am inclined to believe you then,” she replied with a warm smile, laughing as Griselda and Silvia whooped and cheered excitedly. The bustled out of the room in a flurry, conversing spiritedly about what to wear that evening, and Dawn finally peeked up from her letter,

“What on earth is happening over there?” she called from across the room. Bog chuckled and leaned down to whisper into Marianne’s ear. She listened intently, her face suddenly scrunching up in confusion,

“Mr. Garett is…I beg your pardon?” she asked, and Bog laughed outright, motioning for her to repeat his words to Dawn. She regarded him skeptically, then turned back to her sister, “Mr. Garett is…bringing the goose,” she repeated awkwardly, and Bog had to sit down as both women stared back at him looking as though he was implying something obscene.

*

Two hours later, Greer could be seen riding up the drive, followed closely by Mr. Garett’s cart. Bog hurried down the front steps to greet him, followed closely by the rest of the party, “I cannae thank you enough for lending me your time and talent on such short notice,” he said shaking his hand ardently,

“It means a great deal,”

“Ah, it’s my pleasure, M’Lord,” Mr. Garett said with a quick bow before retreating to the rear of his cart and retrieving a moderately-sized leather case. The group gathered around to watch as he opened the latches, and Griselda nearly burst into a fit of laughter as Dawn whispered,

“Is that the goose?” softly somewhere behind her. The case was opened to reveal the absolute strangest-looking instrument Marianne had ever laid her eyes upon; an A-symmetrical leather bag penetrated by three long, wooden stalks which were bound to it securely. Nearer to the thin nozzle of the bag was bound a considerably smaller stalk, and as Marianne looked on in wonder, Mr. Garett attached yet a fifth stalk to the nozzle itself. The final stalk had holes carved carefully and strategically along the length of it, and upon closer examination Marianne realized that the large stalks had beautiful, intricate patterns carved into them as well. Mr. Garett took the perforated stalk in his hands and lifted the rest of the instrument so that that bag fit snugly under his left arm, and the large stalks rested against his left shoulder, held together by a braided silk cord. The contraption made him look not unlike some sort of wild, other-worldly beast, and Marianne found it fascinating,

“How fierce,” she breathed, unequivocally impressed, and Mr. Garett puffed out his chest a tad at her awed compliment,

“They were used in the highlands as weapons of war, and played on the battlefield to terrify our enemies,” he regaled dramatically, “The skirl of the chanter was believed to be the wailing of evil spirits,” Marianne and Dawn let out a hushed ‘Oooh,’ concurrently,

“Aye, are often still regarded and revered as “war pipes,” Bog added, and Marianne’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. What must such a thing sound like? The thought of it made her slightly apprehensive, but did nothing to quell her anticipation,

“I do not understand,” Dawn said exasperatedly, “Does it sound like a goose? Because it most certainly does not look like one,” She folded her arms and Mr. Garett chuckled,

“Those without a proper, discerning ear might say as much,” he began to inflate the leather bag through the second smaller stalk, and took a few subsequent steps away from the group of onlookers, “My only warning to you, ladies,” he said between breaths, “is that I have absolutely no control over the volume,” With a final breath the pipes let out a short HRNK, then he reached up with his right hand and pushed abruptly against the side of the bag.

The pipes roared to life, the three large stalks emitting a low, sustained note that resonated throughout Marianne’s entire body and flooded outward in every direction. Then, without warning, a higher pitch erupted into a stirring, emotive melody unlike anything Marianne had ever heard. The sound struck her very soul, and she was absolutely sure that she had never heard anything quite so magnificent. The melody changed slightly, and it filled Marianne with an indescribably rousing sense of exhilaration, and she wondered if everyone who experienced this music felt the same way. Did Bog feel this way? She tore her eyes away from Mr. Garett long enough to look up and study Bog’s face. His brow was furrowed and, while he was smiling, his lips were pressed together firmly as though he were fighting back tears. And yet, at the same time he was standing proudly, his head held high, and looking as though he could conquer the world single-handedly. She had never seen him look quite that way before, and it was so tremendously moving that tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks before she could stop them.

She continued to stare up at him as the song concluded, and Bog had looked down to meet her gaze. She was speechless, and it was not until Bog reached up with a worried expression to wipe the now-cold tears tracks from her face that she was able to remember how to speak,

“How amazing!” she cried, grabbing Bog’s hand and squeezing excitedly, "I have never in my life heard anything so incredible!" He beamed elatedly back down at her,

“I cannae tell you how wonderful it is to hear you say that,” he said tenderly, then with a wink he added, "I have long suspected you were a proud Scot deep down," and she wished she could push herself up onto her tiptoes and kiss him. _Later_ she thought.

Griselda and Silvia were beside themselves as they fawned over Mr. Garett, showering him with compliments and begging him to play once more,

“Perhaps our Lord McGregor would be willing to delight us with a performance,” he suggested, but Bog laughed and shook his head vehemently,

“God in heaven, no,” he chuckled, hazarding a glance down at his fiancée. To both his chagrin and delight, Marianne was staring up at him with stars in her eyes,

“You play?” she asked breathlessly, her heart skipping a beat. As innocent and attribute as it was, when applied to Bog she found it unfathomably attractive, almost akin to the feeling she experienced when he played the pianoforte, or held her as they waltzed. It was the thrill of discovery, and she could not quench her thirst for it,

“Aye,” Bog replied sheepishly, “My father taught me when I was a lad, but I’m afraid I’m dreadfully out of practice,” he admitted, clearly hoping Marianne would not be too terribly disappointed. She shook her head, still enchanted by her revelation,

“But you _can_ ,” she said in awe, turning Bog’s cheeks red,

“Aye, if I had a mind to practice,” he chuckled, “but for the time being, Mr. Garett?” he called, directing his attention toward the older man and cutting through his mother and aunt’s chatter, “Would you do us the honor of playing at our wedding?” he asked cordially. Mr. Garett tipped his hat with a wide smile,

“It would a privilege, M’Lord,”

* * *

 

Marianne lay awake, her mind racing and restless as Dawn slumbered effortlessly beside her. The events of the day replayed over and over in her head, and refused to give her peace. Overall her experience at Windcrest as whole could be described with only one word: unexpected. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined what this place would have in store for her, and now…

Her thoughts shifted to Bog and she smiled wistfully. She could not imagine a world in which she had never met him, in which he was not hers. As if summoned by her thoughts, she suddenly heard a _THUD_ from the room above her and a muffled curse. Was he still awake? She had been tossing and turning in bed for what felt like hours, and had assumed all other parties were asleep long ago. Now she listened carefully; intermittently she could hear soft footsteps, and the creak of his armchair as he reclined, rose to move about, and reclined again. Boldly she began to consider sneaking up the stairs to visit him. She wouldn’t don a proper dress, it was far too late an hour for that, and Dawn would surely wake if Marianne went rustling around in her drawers. Her heartbeat came more quickly as a viable plan began to take shape. She could crawl out of bed and retrieve her robe from where she had draped it over the back of the love seat, and creep up the stairs without anyone being the wiser. Emboldened by the lateness of the hour, Marianne found herself silently slipping out from underneath the warmth of the duvet as Dawn slept blissfully. Careful not to make a sound, she seized her robe, and inched open the door. Sparing a final glance back toward her sister, she took a deep, calming breath and headed for the stairs.

Unsure of what she actually planned to do, Marianne paused at the door to Bog’s study before knocking. Was he still inside? Would he be pleased to see her? Cross? She had no idea, but she knew there was only one way to find the answer. She knocked softly, hoping the sound would carry enough for him to hear, but not enough to disturb anyone else. She waited for a few moments, but there was no answer. Perhaps she had knocked too quietly. She raised her hand to try again, when the door suddenly opened with a soft creak, and she found herself face to face with bleary-eyed, rather bewildered-looking Bog. He blinked down at her a few times, as though he was unsure she was truly standing before him, before relaxing his shoulders and exhaling,

“Gave me a bit of a fright, lass,” he chuckled softly, opening the door wider and inviting her in, “You must be freezing. Is everything alright?” Closing the door behind them, he motioned for her to make herself comfortable by the fireplace,

“Yes, I am well, thank you. Could you not sleep?” she asked softly, perching herself on his worn leather footrest and holding her hands toward the fire. Bog rested his forearm against the mantle and shook his head,

“Not a wink,”

“Nor I,” Marianne replied with a quiet laugh. She watched the glow of the fire dance across Bog’s face, casting soft, morphing shadows over his angular features. He is so very handsome, she thought to herself. She also noticed that, not unlike herself, he was not fully dressed, though he had not yet donned his nightclothes. His trousers and socks remained, along with a loose-fitting shirt tucked haphazardly into the waistband. His waistcoat and vest and the like had been removed and abandoned she knew not where, and he appeared altogether very relaxed, even in her unexpected presence. Their shared state of semi-undress had an air of intimacy that Marianne was not quite familiar with, and she flushed when she could not stop her eyes from drifting down to where the top buttons of Bog’s shirt lay undone, exposing his bare collarbone,

“What ails you, love?” Bog asked quietly as her silence persisted, and she quickly averted her gaze,

“I could hear you pacing from my room,” she answered offhandedly, to which Bog replied,

“I apologize for waking you,” Marianne shook her head as she gazed at the fire, a small smile spreading across her face,

“You did not,” she regarded gently, “I also…wished to enjoy a few moments of reprieve with you. I fear we will not have much peace in this house for some time,” she speculated, and Bog nodded in affirmation,

“Indeed. I dare say there is enough nonsense between the three of them to ensure we donnae have a single moment alone during these next six months, at least,” he chortled, and Marianne had to hide her laughter behind her hand,

“Six months? Heaven forbid!” she trilled, and Bog smiled down at her warmly,

“I am pleased it was an opportunity you saw fit to take,” he said softly. His low tone sent a tingle through Marianne’s chest, and the way he was gazing at her made her feel faint. He looked as though she had hung the moon and all the stars in the sky, a striking reverence she was unaccustomed to. Yet he also looked…conflicted, and Marianne had every inkling as to why. Their rendezvous carried the very definition of the word impropriety, and she chided herself for putting them both in such a compromising position. She wrapped her robe more tightly around her shoulders and rose from her place by the fire,

“I hope I have not made in any way uncomfortable,” she probed, noting that Bog’s expression had become even more difficult to read. He said nothing in return, but instead reached for her hand. She gave it to him wordlessly, watching as he softly nuzzled the inside of her wrist. He met her gaze as he placed a gentle kiss there, and her breath caught as he pulled her toward him and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her nearer until her chest brushed against his. She inhaled unsteadily at his boldness, and felt her entire body begin to tremble. Bog caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, trailing them down to rest against her neck, and brushed his thumb gently across her lips. He towered over her, and she was pressed firmly enough against him to feel the length of his arousal against her stomach. Marianne’s breath became shallow, and she could hear nothing but the sound of her heart beating wildly as he leaned in and kissed her fervently. Bog made her want things… _need_ things that she had yet to even comprehend – things that they both knew were severely frowned upon when practiced outside the bonds of marriage.

She had long been curious about the idea of copulation, and while she had been engaged to Roland, her limited knowledge of the act, coupled with his pleasant looks and devoted temperament, had led her to believe she would enjoy it. Now the very idea of laying with Roland made her skin crawl. But Bog…heaven above, she had never desired anything the way she did him. His touch, his voice, his strong arms wrapped around her, those hands caressing every inch of her. She tangled her fingers in his hair with a slight tug, eliciting a delightful groan from deep in Bog’s chest. He ran his tongue lightly along her bottom lip, and as she parted them for him she felt his arms tighten around her waist, holding her body flush against his own.

Then, to both her disappointment and relief, he released her, and his hands came up to gently cradle her face as he broke their searing kiss. They stared dazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment, breathing raggedly, and still far closer than was strictly appropriate,

“If we donnae stop now,” Bog growled huskily, “I fear we may do something we would both regret,” Marianne pressed her forehead against his and shook her head,

“I would not regret such a thing,” she assured him frankly. Bog let out a low, breathy laugh,

“At least let me have the dignity of calling you my wife before sharing my bed,” he quipped in mock offense. Marianne chuckled,

“Dignity?” she asked, feigning incredulity, “How displeasing! The very idea!” she turned her head away, playfully dismissive, and Bog took advantage of the access it allowed to the exposed slope of her neck and shoulder. She was intoxicating, and he felt utterly helpless against the temptations she presented. He leaned down and skimmed his nose and lips ever so lightly across her soft, pale skin, occasionally placing feather-light kisses and drawing a surprised moan from Marianne’s lips. The sensation of his mouth ghosting over her flesh sent a pleasant shiver spiraling through her body; it began in her chest and rolled downward quickly to coil just above the apex of her legs. The feeling was accompanied by that same, strange ache she had felt only moments before,

“Pleasure?” Bog amended, his lips grazing her sensitive skin as he spoke. The Marianne all but swooned, and reached up once more to thread her fingers through the silky hair near his nape,

“Mm, perhaps,” she answered breathily, grasping at the fabric of his shirt and pushing her chest up against his. She wanted so badly to be closer to him, as close as was humanly possible. Bog’s mouth returned to devour her own as his large hands came to rest precariously low on her hips. _How incorrigible_ Marianne mused, smiling against his mouth,

“Privilege?” He tried once more, his voice low and rough. His brogue had thickened with his arousal, and Marianne found the way the word rolled off his tongue irresistible,

“That will do,” she said headily, unconsciously allowing the hand knotted in Bog’s shirt to slip free and trail down toward the waistband of his trousers. Suddenly she felt Bog tense, and he seized her wandering hand before in could venture any further. He broke off their kiss abruptly, leveling a voracious gaze at her, and Marianne feared she had truly gone too far. She, who was by everyone’s account a proper and well-mannered young lady, shirking her modesty and brazenly offering herself to an unwed gentleman in the middle of the night. She swallowed audibly as Bog leaned in slowly once more, his breath hot against her ear,

“I _will_ have you one day, lass. Never for a moment doubt that,” she shivered at his audacious words, “…but please,” he swallowed, and his tone quickly transformed from deep and predatory to mirthful and pleading as he pulled away from her completely,

“For the sake of my sanity, if for no other reason, please let me have the _esteemed privilege_ of calling you my wife, before we…” his impious gaze raked over her figure unabashedly before he averted it, choosing instead to stare resolutely at the ornate face of the mantle clock. It registered at last in Marianne’s mind that it was nearly 3 o’clock in the morning, and she agreed that their questionable escapades would likely escalate beyond recovery if they remained alone in each other’s presence any longer,

“I shall bid you goodnight then,” she said with a warm smile. Bog peeked back at her, looking conflicted yet relieved. She gave him a short bow before turning toward the door,

“Marianne, wait,” Bog called softly, moving to catch up with her. Maintaining a suitable distance, he took her right hand in both of his and placed a tender, meaningful kiss upon it,

“I love you,” he promised earnestly, meeting her gaze. Marianne’s heart overflowed with love for the man in front of her, so caring and genteel,

“I love you, too,” she replied, giving him a sweet smile before turning to exit the study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know many of you were expecting a wedding, but I promise it's on the way! I have more planned, and I'll do my very best to post it is a timely manner so as not to keep you waiting!!  
> Thank you again for understanding!


	15. An Unexpected Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy fanfiction, Batman!! This chapter is suuuuper long! over twice the length of a typical chapter. You guys deserve it though, after I left y'all hanging for so long. I will say that this chapter is aaalll plot. I had the idea for this chapter a while back, and I wasn't sure whether I wanted to fit it in before or after the wedding, but it seemed like the right time. I hope you guys enjoy!!

Bog awoke to a thin ray of sparkling, late-morning sun spilling through his window and across his bedspread. He rose to stretch, finding that the lateness of the hour at which sleep had finally found him had left him rather sore, and listened groggily as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed 10 times.

_Not_ so _late_ , he thought to himself, given that his interlude with Marianne had driven him to utter distraction. He had deeply lamented urging her to take her leave of him, and had found it so nearly impossible to do so, but he was pleased and relieved that he had managed it. He was only a man, after all, and had he not the inclination – of which he was not entirely proud – to  _relieve_  himself as soon as he was sure Marianne had returned to her room, he would have awoken decidedly sorer, if sleep had found him at all.

His thoughts drifted back to Plum’s insistence about the guaranteed prosperity of a June wedding, and his mind immediately revolted against the thought. Not only was Marianne’s physical presence becoming a serious threat to his integrity, but there seemed to him to be no viable reason to wait so long in any case. The superstitions pertaining to the success or failure of a marriage based solely on the month in which the ceremony was held seemed as outdated to him as the ‘harmless traditions’ Plum so enthusiastically proposed. However, unaware as he was of Marianne’s feelings on the subject, he would leave it to her to choose their wedding day. He only hoped she would be kind in doing so, and not see fit to torture him with an overly-long engagement.

There was a quick knock at his door, and when bid, Greer entered with a tray of tea and a message from Plum and Mrs. Everett,

“They bid you join them in the parlor this morning, My Lord,” Greer said temperately as he poured Bog’s tea,

“Did they give a reason for this meeting?” he asked with an exasperated smile,

“None that I am aware of, Sir,” Greer replied. Bog exhaled a quick laugh.  _Of course not_ ,

“Has Miss Faedelle been seen yet this morning?” he inquired, attempting to sound nonchalant,

“Innis has gone to collect Miss Faedelle from her room. I understand she has received a letter from town early this morning,” he said, catching Bog’s attention immediately,

“A letter? From whom?” he asked cautiously. Perhaps her brother Mr. Everett had written to her – that would not be so very strange…but what if…

“A Miss Miriam Fletcher,” Greer responded evenly, and Bog let out a relieved sigh.  _How ridiculous I am_ , he thought. He knew full well that Roland Blande was bound for an asylum far from the walls of Windcrest, yet he could not quell the small bubble of panic that bloomed when he thought of that dreadful man’s persistence. Notwithstanding the fact that Roland had a history with Windcrest and at least two of its former inhabitants, it was unnerving to recall the ease with which he had gained access to Marianne without alerting anyone to his presence. Who could say if a snake with such a proclivity for furtiveness could not manage to send a letter from whatever bottomless hellhole he had been thrown into?

But it appeared that this was not the case, and Bog knew he would need to do his best to forget the man entirely. Miriam Fletcher – he had never heard such a name spoken before, by Marianne or anyone else in his acquaintance, so who was she to be writing to Windcrest unexpectedly?

Greer helped him dress as he pondered the situation, and Bog made for the parlor, sure that, whatever the letter might say, Marianne was capable of handling it in due course.

* * *

 

Marianne’s brow furrowed as she carefully tore open the letter Innis had brought with her morning tea. She had never known a ‘Miriam Fletcher’ in her life, and was immensely curious about what she could possibly have to say. She unfolded the parchment and read silently:

 

_To Miss Marianne Faedelle,_

_I pray you will excuse my forthrightness in writing to you when we have never been introduced, but in light of the recent events involving our mutual acquaintance Roland Blande, I felt that I must contact you at once. I have been made aware of your connection with him, and, as I have found myself in a distressingly similar circumstance to your own, I beg you to consider my request to take tea with you this afternoon at Birch Terrace._

_I hope you will not think me discourteous in my invitation, but I really must be allowed to insist upon it._

_Of course I will not bid you come alone, if your discomfort prevents it. I should very much like you to feel at ease in my company, if possible, so please bring a companion if you wish._

_If you are inclined to accept my invitation, I will meet you in the white room at 4 o’clock for afternoon tea._

_Kind Regards,_

_Miriam Fletcher_

 

Marianne read and reread the letter thrice before pausing to consider its contents. This woman was also disagreeably connected with Roland, and her description of her current state being ‘distressingly similar’ to Marianne’s past plight was cause for great concern. Had she no family left, then? No money, nor connections who might take pity on her? Or was her situation truly as desolate as Marianne’s had once been? Marianne folded the letter carefully and set it on her nightstand,

“It seems I shall be going into town this afternoon,” she murmured, running her fingers through her hair absentmindedly and freeing the tresses from the confines of her braid. Should she ask Dawn to accompany her? Her sister did possess a keen eye for dishonesty; surely if this woman had any ill intentions, Dawn would be able to discover them,

“Mrs. Everett also requests your presence in the downstairs parlor, Miss,” Innis said with a short curtsey, to which Marianne rolled her eyes in response.  _What now_? She thought to herself.

*

Upon arriving downstairs, she was pleased to find that Bog was already occupying the space. He stood by the window, gazing out at the fields and trees beyond the drive, seemingly lost in thought. He didn’t appear to have heard her enter, so she took a moment to study him quietly. He wore a deep green waistcoat that complimented his form nicely, and looked altogether far more collected than he had during their previous encounter.

She had two different sides of him to compare in her mind now: the one who stood before her, all etiquette and chivalry, hair combed and well-mannered, and the less-reserved, impious, possibly-half-dressed version of him that surfaced on occasion. Suffice it to say, she was impressed and delighted by the fact that both possibilities existed within Bog simultaneously.

She cleared her throat casually to alert him to her presence, and his indifferent demeanor warmed as he took in the sight of her,

“Good morning,” he said simply, and Marianne nodded cordially,

“Have you any insight into the nature of our meeting this morning?” She asked, and Bog chuckled with a shake of his head,

“None that I can state with any surety, but I expect it will have something to do with planning a certain ceremony,” he said implicatively, and Marianne could not keep an elated smile from lighting her face, “Have you considered a date yet?” he added and Marianne’s expression turned thoughtful,

“Well, Silvia seemed rather resolute on the subject; ‘a June wedding for prosperity’,” she mimicked, prompting a stifled laugh from Bog, “However it seems that such a lengthy engagement would serve no higher purpose than to satisfy her superstitions about the subject, which I cannot find agreeable. And in any case,” she met Bog’s eyes evenly, “I dare say it is an occasion that neither of us wishes to forego for very long,” Bog held her gaze steadily as the corner of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk, and it amused Marianne how easily they were able to converse in this way,

“Well, if you absolutely  _insist_ ,” Silvia said exasperatedly, having suddenly appeared in the doorway. Bog and Marianne started in unison, turning abruptly to stare at the interloper, who continued as though she had not seemingly manifested out of thin air, “I suppose December is an equally acceptable option,”

“Nonsense, Silvia, it is too long!” Dawn chimed from behind her, bouncing into the room, “Marianne, do you remember the rhyme we learned when we were young? Mrs. Finch taught it to us, do you recall?” she asked excitedly, and Marianne smiled wistfully at the memory of their first governess – Such a kind woman,

“Marry in September’s shine, your living will be…” she faltered as she recalled the rest, feeling as though it may be in bad taste to reveal it under the circumstances,

“ _Rich and fine_ ,” Silvia finished for her, sending a wave of chagrin washing through Marianne, “It’s quite alright, darling, we all know you are marrying into privilege,”

“But that is not—!” she replied abruptly before stopping to take a calming breath, “That is not the  _cause_  for the occasion. I would care nothing for the grandeur and status of an advantageous marriage if it were not Bog whom I were marrying,” her gaze flickered to Bog for a split second, and the warmth in his crystal eyes was both comforting and grounding,

“Of course not, dear, no one is accusing you,” Silvia waved her off, then motioned for Marianne and Bog to come forward. They met in the middle of the room, and she grasped one of each of their hands firmly, “Pay no mind to my superstitions,” she said with a soft smile, “The success of a marriage is not defined by the date of the ceremony, but by the people it connects. This is the first in a long line of decisions you will have to make together, and compared to what’s to come, this is the easiest by far.  _So_ , if it is a September wedding you wish for, let the joy of it not be tainted by a silly nursery rhyme, or anything else,” she gaze their hands a squeeze. Marianne peeked up at Bog, and he smiled in approval,

“September it is,” he said with a grin, and Silvia nodded,

“Excellent!” she said before releasing Bog’s hand to pat Marianne’s, “And as long as you hold the ceremony on a Wednesday, the month is of no consequence!” Marianne bit her lip to keep from laughing as Bog pinched the bridge of his nose,

“Shall we go then? There is so much to do!” Dawn said cheerily as Griselda joined them from the foyer. Dawn bid her good morning enthusiastically,

“We are all here now, so let us be on our way!”

“On our way?” Bog asked, confused. Griselda looked at him sheepishly,

“We…we thought it would be lovely to take trip into town today…all of us,” she mumbled, and Bog recoiled,

“I shall do no such thing,” he voice was low, and Marianne could see a flash of panic in his eyes. However comfortable he had become within the walls of his own home, it seemed he was still not keen on the idea of mingling amongst the townsfolk. No doubt he would still feel the burn of their eyes on him, even though it was certain that Silvia would have made the truth of the matter common knowledge by that point,

“Bog please, such an occasion warrants a change of routine, would you not agree?” Griselda said gently,

“Marianne, tell your husband-to-be that he must cease his sulking and accompany us to town,” Silvia said flatly, eliciting a cold stare from Bog,

“I pray you will persist no further on the subject,” Bog growled through clenched teeth, and Marianne moved to take his hand,

“Bog—“

“I will not yield!” he snapped, wrenching his hand away from hers,

“Barnabus!” Griselda scolded, but Marianne raised a hand to reassure her,

“Give us a moment to speak won’t you?” she requested, her voice firm. The three ladies hesitated for a moment, but were soon ushered out by Griselda who quietly assured them it was for the best. As they left the room, Marianne’s gaze remained firmly fixed on Bog, who looked for all the world like a stubborn child, arms crossed uncomfortably over his chest. She looked at him, calmly expectant, until the tension seizing through him ceased, and his shoulders relaxed,

“Forgive me,” he murmured without meeting her eye, “for my petulance, and for raising my voice to you. You did nothing to deserve it,” he looked utterly ashamed, but Marianne had received no injury from his outburst,

“Bog, listen to me,” she said without moving to touch him, “I understand how you feel. Here, inside your home, you are safe and protected, and outside it you will be afforded no such security. It is a valid feeling, that fear, and I am the last person who would have you forsake it,” she said softly. Bog was still unable to look at her, but at length was able to summon a response,

“Are you going to give me a rousing speech about how I am stronger than I believe myself to be, and tell me that I can do anything if I simply put in the effort?” he joked dryly, and Marianne smiled, deigning it safe to once again reach for his hand,

“Seems you’ve done it for me,” she said, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles in a soothing way. Bog exhaled a quiet laugh, but after a moment his small smile crumbled into an expression of despair,

“I…I still fear what they think of me. I fear what they will think of you  _because_  of me,” He placed his other hand gently over hers, cradling it between his palms, “I have spent the better part of my life hiding away in this house. No guests, no friends to speak of, and not the slightest inkling to travel into town to…to what? Be sneered at and scorned?” his tone had become bitter, and Marianne set her jaw firmly, bracing herself against his tirade of self-deprecation, “No amount of idle gossip will change their perceptions of me, no matter who perpetrates it. I am an pariah grasping at the hems of saints,” He mused with a sardonic smile. Marianne’s heart ached unbearably as he dropped her hands and stepped away from her. His eyebrows knit together as though he were in pain, “You are marrying a coward, Marianne,” he murmured ruefully. Marianne stared at him as his words sent a shockwave of anger hurtling through her,

“I  _beg_  your pardon?” she asked incredulously, daring him to repeat himself. He glared stoically at the far wall, not proffering a reply. Her nostrils flared at his lack of discourse, but she waited, her derisive gaze boring into his back; she knew he would feel it. Minutes ticked past and his silence persisted, until Marianne could no longer bare it. Squaring her shoulders, she marched over to Bog, depositing herself directly in front of him, not two feet away.

He did not look at her, but she caught the flicker of discomfort in his features at her proximity. She attempted ardently to keep her air of defiance and admonishment, but her ire deflated in the face of his dejection. This man had known so much pain and isolation, and it was selfish of her to believe he would simply forget; she hadn’t. She stepped into him and carefully wrapped her arms around him, laying her head comfortingly against his chest. She felt him jump at her touch, as though the sudden contact had burned him, but he relaxed after only a brief moment and leaned into her embrace,

“You are not a coward,” she murmured against his chest. Her head rose and fell as he heaved a sigh beneath her,

“Marianne—“

“You are  _not_  a coward,” she reiterated firmly, pushing away to gaze up at him fiercely, “I have known cowards;  _Roland_ was a coward, a lesser man than you who lost his mind under a fraction of the duress and hardship you have experienced,” Bog’s lip curled slightly at the mention of her former intended, but her ardor held his attention, “You could have given up. You could have let the lies they told about you consume your mind and rot your heart, but you didn’t. You never,  _never_  became the monster they insisted you were, not for a moment,” her declaration dizzied him, drawing out the realization that her still found her affection for him as dazzling as it was unprecedented. He swallowed the swell of emotion that threatened to overtake him, “In light of all you have faced,” Marianne continued, “You are without a doubt the most courageous man I have ever met,” her voice nearly broke over the last few words, and Bog immediately took her in his arms, crushing her against his chest. She gripped the back of his waistcoat desperately, willing the turmoil within him to settle. He lowered his head to her shoulder and breathed deeply, letting her gentle scent sooth him. She seemed, to him, an indomitable pillar of strength, and he aspired to one day become her equal in that capacity,

“You fly so far above me,” he breathed, barely audible, and placed a feather-light kiss on the slope of her shoulder. She tightened her arms around him for a moment, then withdrew,

“In any case,” she continued gently, offering him a warm smile, “I received a letter calling me into town this morning, so I shall be joining them regardless,”

“Yes I heard. Is this Miss Fletcher an acquaintance of yours?” he asked, raising an eyebrow,

“Indeed not, I have never heard of her,” she detected an edge of wariness in his tone,

“Then I am pleased that you willnae be venturing into town alone,” he said resolutely, and Marianne gave a short nod. She had not intended to guilt him into joining their party, but deep down, she had hoped he might change his mind. She turned to join her traveling party in the foyer, “After all,” Bog said suddenly, “the last time you went without me you came back practically in tears. We cannae have that again,” he quipped with an amused smile. He watched as Marianne turned back to stare at him. Her eyes widened, and after a moment of confusion a jubilant smile lit her face,

“Truly? Are you certain?” she asked, searching his face for any sign that he felt put-upon,

“Aye,” he nodded sheepishly, “I donnae wish to remain reclusive and unsociable my entire life. It is…let us call it a bad habit in need of breaking,” he said apologetically. Marianne reached out and took his hand reassuringly, brushing delicate kisses over his knuckles, mirroring the affectionate ministrations he had granted her so many times before. Her lips left a warm, tingling sensation where they touched him,

“I will always be beside you, I promise,” she murmured against his skin, and Bog could not recall a time when he had felt so comforted, so safe. He drew her into gentle embrace, and let his cheek rest against her hair for a brief moment,

“Thank you, love,” he whispered before they parted.

*

As a compromise – insisted upon by both Marianne and himself – Bog refused to join the rest of the party in the carriage if favor of riding his horse, Dragonfly. It served to put his mind at ease knowing that he could, if he wished or needed, leave at any time without insisting the ladies abandon their enjoyment to accommodate him. He was a fine horseman, and rather enjoyed the look of admiration Marianne afforded him when he mounted his horse.

At 17 hands, Dragonfly was an intimidating creature, especially adorned with a rider, and his striking, black and white piebald coat was exquisite. Bog only kept Clydesdales, and his Palomino mare, Lady, was equally superb. The pair had been given as a gift by Griselda not long after Lorna had passed; a means of distraction, Bog supposed, and he could admit that it had soothed him. They were gentle and affectionate, and very smart, and Bog had quickly come to adore them both.

He had considered giving Lady to Marianne as a wedding present, though it seemed a bit redundant to do so. Marianne had ridden the mare only once, and the two had got on so well that it seemed to Bog they belonged to each other already. He had offered her to Marianne for the day, of course, but it seemed his fiancée had promised her sister an engaging interview about wedding particulars on their journey into town. As a result, Bog looked rather like a lone, ethereal sentry beside the carriage, Dragonfly’s mane billowing elegantly as they rode.

He was…nervous;  _very_  nervous. It had been an age since he had ventured into town, and although he had just hosted nearly all of the people he was about to encounter in his home not two weeks prior, it was still unsettling,

“It is all forgotten!” Plum had assured him before they departed, claiming she had written to every single acquaintance in the vicinity and beyond to detail the facts of the situation and clear his name. It was a small comfort, but his mind was still in turmoil; he would have to perceive his neighbors’ indifference with his own eyes before he could be at ease.

Still, he knew deep down that it would likely not be as bad as he imagined. Plum had vast influence in local society, and he thanked the heavens that it was working in his favor.

After a few moments of peaceful travel, there came a commotion from inside the carriage,

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ” came Mrs. Everett’s incredulous cry, and suddenly it seemed everyone was speaking at once, “Marianne you cannot! You  _must_  not, surely you can see how suspicious this is?”

“My dear you are very, very kind to entertain such an invitation. No doubt the poor girl has been quite traumatized, but do you suppose it is safe to go alone?” he heard his mother say,

“Of course, she will  _not_  go unaccompanied,” Dawn replied. As their argument continued, Bog bid the driver stop the carriage, and dismounted. He pulled open the carriage door to find all eyes on Marianne, who seemed at a loss for words. At his appearance, all four ladies snapped their heads toward him in surprise. After meeting each of their gazes questioning, his eyes met Marianne’s,

“What on earth is going on in here?”

* * *

 

Marianne watched in awe as Bog mounted his horse, greatly admiring his elegance and poise as he did so. He had donned a top hat for the ride into town, which added to his already-impressive height, and atop his colossal steed he looked utterly magnificent. She cooed softly at Dragonfly and petted his nose affectionately before joining Dawn and the others in the carriage, and soon they were trotting down the drive toward town.

It was perhaps a thirty-minute journey into town by carriage, and Marianne steeled herself for her sister’s onslaught of queries. Surprisingly, however, Dawn’s first question was for Griselda,

“What sort of garments does a Scottish gentleman where to his wedding?” She asked excitedly, and the older woman’s eyes lit up,

“Oh my dear, what a sight it is! I say, there is nothing quite as pleasing to the eye as a man in full regalia,” she sighed, causing Dawn to giggle,

“I pray you will elaborate,” she said, eyeing her sister,

“Well a great kilt is traditional in the highlands, but among higher society a short kilt is typically worn for important events and occasions. The difference, or course, is that a great kilt must be wrapped each time it is to be worn, whereas the short kilt is neatly pleated and properly sewn,” she explained,

“Why the regional variance?” Marianne asked, intrigued,

“A great kilt is intended mainly for soldiers; it can be unwrapped and used for warmth and shelter when necessary. Short kilts are more practical, and speak of the wearer’s status as one who has been able to avoid the battlefield,” she continued, and Marianne silently thanked the heavens that Bog had never been called to war,

“Each family has a distinct pattern that can be recognized from afar. The McGregor tartan, for example, is a stirring red and green plaid that is unique to our clan. Douglas is a deep blue and green with small stripes of white, McIntosh is red, green,  _and_  blue, and so on,” her explanation was animated and full of pride, and Marianne found it very heartwarming,

“How delightful! I am sure our Lord looks very well in such attire,” Dawn enthused before turning to Marianne,

“Have you given any thought to the color of your wedding clothes?” she asked jovially,

“I understand that white is no very fashionable, thanks to your Lady Queen,” Silvia chirped, and Dawn scrunched up her nose at the idea,

“How incredibly dull,” she said, unimpressed, “Lilac has always been the best color for Marianne, and as it is her favorite, that is the color the dress should be!” she asserted. Here sister chuckled,

“I confess, it is my favorite color, but if you recall, sister, you have already made me a gown of that shade,” she pointed out,

“Oh then that will not do at all,” Silvia said plainly, “Allow it to be white, won’t you dear? Nothing too stark of course, perhaps ivory, or eggshell?”

“Call it ivory or eggshell or whatever pedantic nonsense you please, it is all exceedingly dreary,” Dawn pouted,

“Dear I think you are being a bit dramatic,” Griselda tutted, “Could you not give us a charming white gown, and put the color in the details?” she suggested, and Dawn’s pout wavered,

“Oh yes, what a lovely idea!” Silvia agreed, “Perhaps some organza flowers here and there, a touch of flora and fauna. What do you think Marianne?” Dawn raised an eyebrow as the gears in her head began to turn,

“What a wonderful idea!” Marianne agreed excitedly. The image Silvia conjured brought to mind the delicate, otherworldly paintings in the foyer, and of the primroses in the greenhouse, “I daresay it is the best suggestion yet given,” she smiled. Dawn’s eyes sparkled with inspiration,

“Yes… _Yes_ , it is a perfect idea! Oh Marianne you will be the most beautiful bride in the country when I’ve finished with you!” she squealed. Marianne smiled happily,

“Marianne, I understand you have received a rather peculiar letter this morning,” Silvia probed, raising an eyebrow. Marianne stared for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the sudden change in topic,

“Ah…yes, I have,” she replied,

“A letter?” Griselda asked, furrowing her brow,

“From whom?” Dawn chimed in. All three women now watched her fixedly, and Marianne balked in the face of their anticipation,

“Well…she claims to be a close acquaintance of Mr. Blande’s,” she began cautiously. All three pairs of eyes staring at her widened in unison, but she continued before anyone else could speak,

“Her name is Miriam Fletcher. She wishes to speak to me about my dealings with him, and I shall be taking tea with her this afternoon at Birch Terrace,” she concluded. The carriage  _exploded_  with cries of everything from outrage to intrigue,

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ” Dawn exclaimed, “Marianne you cannot! You  _must_  not, surely you can see how suspicious this is?” she grasped her sister’s hand fervently,

“My dear you are very, very kind to entertain such an invitation. No doubt the poor girl has been quite traumatized, but do you suppose it is safe to go alone?” Griselda worried, looking to Silvia for help,

“Of course, she will  _not_  go unaccompanied,” Dawn insisted,

“But suppose the child is skittish! What will she think if she is ambushed by the lot of us?” Griselda retorted,

“I care not!” Dawn cried. None of them noticed when the carriage was brought to a halt,

“Dawn, please, the letter was perfectly amiable. I have no reason to suspect anything nefarious from her,” Marianne tried to assuage her sister, but Dawn had a habit of being stubborn to a fault,

“If she can entertain you, sister, then she can entertain me as well,” she said firmly,

“Roland Blande has been effectively removed from the vicinity. There is no reason to suspect her!” Griselda argued,

“Did her letter request that you go by yourself?” Silvia asked amusedly, her voice ringing out over the commotion. All eyes turned to Marianne again,

“N-No, she assured it that it was perfectly acceptable to bring a companion if I so wished,” At that moment the carriage door swung open, revealing an apprehensive-looking Bog. Marianne watched, startled, as he shared a brief glance with all the party before his gaze fell on her,

“What on earth is going on in here?” he asked. Silvia held up a hand before the others could speak,

“Marianne has just informed us of her plans to take afternoon tea with a Miss Miriam Fletcher whilst we are in town,” she said evenly,

“Aye,” Bog said, bidding her to continue. Silvia shifted her gaze to Marianne, then back to her nephew,

“As it happens, Miss Fletcher is a  _close_  acquaintance of our Mr. Blande,” Marianne felt a twinge of regret as Bog’s eyes flickered back to her, his expression disturbed,

“Is that so?” he asked. Marianne sat up straight, meeting his eye,

“Yes, it is,” she replied. Bog’s eyes narrowed doubtfully at the idea, but she persisted, “She only wishes to have tea and discuss our mutual disdain for the man who effectively ruined both of our lives,” she said simply. Bog had no reason to be upset, none of them did. She sensed no danger from Miss Fletcher, and if she had, Bog would have been the first to know. He considered her explanation for a time, his expression contemplative, before an amused chuckled escaped his lips,

“And you plan to abandon the rest of us for martyrdom, is that it?” he teased, and Marianne rolled her eyes good-humoredly,

“Can you imagine how terrified she will be if I bring our entire party down upon her? Were it that I was still in her shoes, such an assembly would be most unwelcome,”

“Aye, but you cannae fault us for being a bit protective of you,” he said pointedly, his tone soft. Marianne knew he was right. After everything that had occurred, she could not blame them for thinking her foolish in this endeavor, “I will accompany you, if it suits,” he suggested, to which Marianne gently shook her head,

“Thank you, but if I am to be prevailed upon in this way, I think it would be best if Silvia were to join me,” Bog cocked his head quizzically, prompting her to explain, “When I was in Miss Fletcher’s position, I had no one and nothing until I met Silvia. Were it not for her kindness, I would be destitute. If there is anything to be done for this young woman, I fear I would not have the means or influence to accomplish it,” she met Plum’s dubious gaze,

“You seem convinced that this unknown person is deserving of such attentions,” Silvia mused, but Marianne shook her head,

“Indeed not, it is impossible to know having never met her, but I cannot help feeling empathetic; hers is a familiar plight,” Marianne knew that if Plum could see something worth saving in her, then she could certainly see it again in Miss Fletcher. It was in the woman’s nature to dote on the less fortunate, and the situation was far too similar to Marianne’s to be of no interest to her eccentric benefactor. Bog found that this alternative suited him fine.

“Very well, as long as you have an escort, I shall not be troubled,” he said, and to Marianne’s relief, Plum smiled amiably,

“I suppose it has been decided then,”

*

Upon arriving in town, Dawn immediately lead them all to the textile shop where she and Marianne had purchased their lace for the ball. She bid Bog wait outside, because ‘a groom should never look upon his bride’s gown before the wedding’, but Marianne quickly vetoed her demand,

“It is not a gown yet, it is not even a full bolt. I guarantee no harm will come from him glancing at a swatch or two,” she chided,

“I would hardly know what I was looking at in any case,” Bog jested. Dawn gave an exasperated sigh, but did not dwell on the subject. Bog gave Marianne a relieved and appreciative smile before leaving them to their endeavor.

Dawn poured over their brocade swatches, holding each one up to account for the color against Marianne’s skin and eyes, and setting aside her favorites. Then it was on to lace, muslin, silk, organza…Bog lost track of the seemingly endless types of fabrics they perused. It was bewildering to discover the complicated intricacies of producing a single lady’s garment. Gentleman’s clothing seemed a great deal simpler to both make and wear, and he found it a frightfully unfair advantage.

At length it seemed Dawn had finally made her decisions, and Bog could swear she purchased enough fabric to make three such gowns. They exited the shop to store their packages inside the carriage, and Bog took the opportunity to discretely glance around. Aside from the occasional, cordial nod of a passerby, no one seemed to be paying them any mind. The square was not terribly crowded as it was nearly time for tea, which he was grateful for, and he felt the tension coiling inside him loosen just a bit.

He felt the gentle touch of Marianne looping her arm through his, and looked down at her with a fond smile.

“How are you, my dear?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Marianne felt her cheeks grow warmer at the endearment,

“I mean to ask you the same,” she replied quietly. Bog gave her a reassuring nod,

“I shall be alright. I cannot hide from this forever, nor should I wish to. I am only glad that I have you beside me in this endeavor, for I doubt it would succeed under any other circumstances,” he reflected,

“You sell yourself too short,” she insisted, and an amused grin crept over Bog’s face,

“I confess it is true. But, to my credit, I have attempted to offset my  _short_ comings with the stature of the horses I keep,” he bantered lightheartedly, making a show of looking up and admiring Dragonfly’s impressive height. Marianne laughed outright, clasping her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggling. It was musical sound, he thought, and absolutely charming,

“And the hats you wear, no doubt,” she countered,

“Naturally,” he affirmed, reaching up to tap the top of his hat. There was hardly an occasion to wear it these days, it seemed, but it was of excellent quality, and even he knew that any man of breeding would not be caught dead in public without one. He had purposely left his ornate walking cane at home as to avoid attracting too much attention to himself, but he still looked every inch a wealthy gentleman, with the most incomparable woman in the world on his arm.

*

The five companions spent the day strolling through town, window shopping, and occasionally popping into a store for something that one or the other of them simply could not do without. They passed a men’s tailoring shop, and Griselda insisted Bog be measured for a new Montrose Doublet for the celebration. The idea of entering the business alone was unnerving, but the tailor was kind and conversational. He congratulated Bog warmly, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back,

“Everyone deserves to find happiness,” he declared sincerely, and Bog’s shoulders felt just a bit lighter. He put in an order for a new doublet and a matching vest, and once the affair was complete he noted that it was already half past three. Rejoining his party outside on the road, he offered to see Marianne and Plum to the tearoom.

The Birch Terrace Tea Room was a picturesque villa which existed at the edge of the town, flanked on one side by various shops and localities. From the opposite side stretched a moderate pleasure garden, complete with a jasmine-covered, lattice gazeebo, and several stone fountains. Admittedly it was far too grand for such a small, inconsequential town, but a wealthy local had, apparently, demanded that it endure. Marianne peeked at Plum out of the corner of her eye, and was met by an expression of tremendous pride and satisfaction,

“How Exquisite!” Dawn exclaimed, reveling at the beauty of the building before them. It was a sizeable cottage of weathered stone and wood, surrounded by trees of its given name, and dripping with wisteria blossoms. The front door was painted a pleasant olive green, set with a gold handle, and the sign hanging above them read ‘Birch Terrace’ in whimsical, scrolling letters. It was absolutely charming. Plum’s chest puffed out a bit as she held her head high,

“Thank you, dear. Nothing to luxury of Vauxhall, I grant you, but agreeable all the same,” she conceded. Dawn’s eyes sparkled enviously,

“Have you been to Vauxhall?” she asked, unwittingly stroking Plum’s already-sizeable ego on the matter,

“My darling girl, of course I have!” she tittered, and Dawn’s expression turned pleading,

“How amazing! Oh, I wish we could see it!” she pined,

“No trouble, my dear. When next you find yourself in the area, give them my name at the door, and they’ll see that you are taken care of,” she crowed. Dawn gawked at the older woman reverently,

“Your humility is stirring,” Bog drawled, garnering a reproving look from Plum,

“My dear nephew, you really should learn to appreciate the finer things the world has to offer. Heaven knows you have the means. I suppose it will be up to Marianne to provide the motivation,” she winked at the two of them, sending deep blushes across both their faces. With that, she turned and marched up to the door, throwing it open with a flourish.

A smartly dressed maître d rushed over to greet them, kissing Plum on both cheeks like an old friend,

“My dear lady, it has been an age!” he cajoled, smiling warmly, “How may I accommodate you and your guests this afternoon?” he prompted, glancing amiably around at the group.

“Oh, do let me introduce you, Samuel. This is Mrs. Dawn Everett, and her sister Miss Marianne Faedelle,” the two of them bowed courteously, “and this is my dearest sister, Griselda, and her son, Lord Barnabus McGregor,” There was a pause as Plum articulated his full name. As Samuel’s gaze landed on Bog, surprise registered, and Bog feared for a moment that his pleasant countenance would dissipate. After a moment, however, the maître d gave a respectful bow and greeted him warmly,

“My Lord, what a pleasure it is to have you,” he offered his hand to Bog, who took it tentatively, “If there is anything I can do to make you more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask,” he said with a firm shake and a warm smile. Bog returned the sentiment with a nod and a timid grin. Again, it seemed that Plum’s word was law, and he straightened up a little where he stood,

“Miss Faedelle and I have a guest waiting for us in the white room,” Plum declared, and Samuel nodded, motioning toward the hallway to their right,

“Of course, Madame. Will the rest of your party be joining you?” he asked, glancing back toward Bog and Griselda. The latter shook her head,

“Not today, I’m afraid, we have an appointment elsewhere,” she replied,

“A shame. Well it was lovely to meet you both, I do hope you will honor us by visiting again,” he said with a bow,

“Oh, yes, quite soon I expect!” Griselda chirped. Bog folded a hand behind his back and extended the other toward Marianne, who took it with a smile. He was still apprehensive about their temporary separation, but knew she was needed elsewhere,

“Until later, my d--…Miss Faedelle,” he quickly corrected himself, quickly placing a chaste kiss on the back of her hand before Griselda ushered him out the door. Silvia rolled her eyes good-humoredly,

“Shall we, Marianne?” she prompted, and Marianne nodded, affording Samuel a pleasant, appreciative smile before following Plum to the white room.

Upon entering, they were greeted by the low hum of friendly chatter. There were several patrons present, all of whom were seated around tables in groups of two and three, their low voices and laughs accented by the occasional delicate  _clink_  of silver against porcelain. The clock in the corner of the room chimed the hour, and Marianne looked around intently, wondering if their guests had arrived. It didn’t take long to spot the only table hosting a single guest, and Marianne recognized the occupant instantly. It was the same mysterious woman she and Dawn had seen on Roland’s arm in the days leading up to the ball.

Marianne swallowed and began making her way toward the table. Miriam stood up, offering them a tentative smile as they approached,

“Miss Fletcher?” Marianne asked hesitantly. Miriam nodded,

“You must be Marianne,” she replied, a nervous edge to her tone. Her gaze flickered to Silvia, who was studying her carefully,

“This is my dear friend Mrs. Plume,” Marianne introduced them, and Plum reached for Miriam’s hand,

“Charmed, dear,” she said. Her words were laced with the slightest hint of contempt, and Marianne eyed her disapprovingly, but said nothing,

“I do hope we didn’t keep you waiting,” she said casually, and Miriam shook her head,

“Not at all, I just sat down myself. What kind of tea would you – Oh,” she was cut off just then by a waiter arriving at their table, tea tray in hand. He deftly laid out the pot and tea cups, sugar bowl, creamer, and a caddy filled with thistle black tea. Miriam, looking confused, offered a timid smile to the waiter. He bowed swiftly and retreated, but returned almost immediately with a tray of sandwiches and scones. With table dressed, he bowed once again and was gone.

Marianne glared sideways at Silvia, who had begun brewing her tea with an air of detached – and rather condescending – indifference. Marianne turned her attention back to Miriam, who looked rather embarrassed by what had transpired,

“I…um…I apologize, I did not—“

“Of course not, dear, I did,” Plum said curtly. Miriam was clearly taken aback – truthfully, she looked downright terrified – and stared down as she wrung her hands in her lap. Marianne wished desperately that Plum would stop mortifying the poor girl – she looked far too young to be someone who had known the hardships she claimed to have suffered. Must the knife be unnecessarily twisted?

“Do forgive my friend, Miss Fletcher, she is somewhat of a permanent fixture here,” she rebuked, though she received no reaction from her benefactor,

“Oh, I see,” Miriam trailed off, glancing longingly at the array of fine accoutrements laid out before them,

“Please help yourself,” Marianne said with a smile, trying to calm the other woman’s nerves. Miriam glanced warily as Plum, but at length reached for a sandwich.

“Thank you,” She nibbled at it apprehensively as Marianne tried to ease the awkwardness of their meeting,

“You expressed in your letter that you have had some dealings with Mr. Blande,” she began, figuring there was no point in avoiding the matter at hand. Miriam tensed, but nodded jerkily,

“Y-Yes, we were…I was his…” she trailed off.  _Fiancée_. The word, though unspoken, hung heavily between them. It offered them a commonality, the nature of which Marianne deeply resented,

“Was he given any property? A dowry,” She asked,

“Certainly not,” Miriam replied, almost indignantly, “My father is a traditionalist, he would never approve of such a thing,”

“Thank heaven for that,” Marianne breathed. Roland had likely appreciated the challenge her father's beliefs presented him. Miriam seemed kind enough, quiet and shy, and  _so young_. Marianne could not stand it,

“Pray…how old are you, Miss Fletcher?” she probed. She knew it was an impertinent question, but Miriam willingly supplied an answer,

“I will be eighteen in December,” she replied, and Marianne’s heart constricted painfully. She felt the sour sting of bile threaten to rise in her throat, but she swallowed it back. Roland had proved time and again how depraved he was, but now Marianne was certain of it: he was a disease,

“And your parents?” she asked through clenched teeth, trying not to betray the fury coursing through her. She dreaded the answer,

“They live in Brighton,” Miriam supplied, her expression softening a bit. Marianne released a heavy sigh of relief, “We were only here on holiday,” she continued, looking down again, tears welling in her eyes,

“What business did he say he had here?” Marianne prodded, “Why choose to visit this place?”

“He said he knew it, that’s all,” she said miserably, “We were supposed to meet my aunt near the border in Ancroft, but he convinced me to forgo the formality of having a chaperone. Oh, God,” she stifled a sob, “What will they think of me? I’m sure my aunt has written to them and told them…they’ll be so ashamed!” she covered her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut to attempt to keep her tears at bay. Marianne looked on helplessly. What could she do? Miriam’s prospects would be utterly ruined if she returned home unmarried after all but eloping with Roland, whether they had intended to marry or not. She supposed it was a small comfort that Roland was receiving his due castigation, but it would have no effect on Miriam’s tainted reputation. Unless…

“ _Unless_ ,” Silvia interjected, startling both the younger ladies, “you were to have a person of great social standing and indisputable morality speak on our behalf. What then?” she asked matter-of-factly. Miriam simply stared at her, speechless,

“I…well…what?” she stammered, and Plum huffed impatiently,

“The nature of your _holiday_ with Mr. Blande is such that your integrity and, dare I say, your chastity would be immediately called into question upon your returning home an unmarried woman, correct?” she asserted. Miriam could only nod silently, “Right, so, say a certain person came to your defense; a person with such sway and say in all civilized society that there would be no question of your virtue?” she hinted, giving the poor, confused girl a pointed look. Miriam grasped for an answer,

“Then…I suppose…I could go home? And…live without fear of condemnation for my--…for, Mr. Blande’s indiscretions,” she concluded, staring ahead blankly, “But who…” her gaze fell on Marianne, who was beaming at a very proud-looking Plum. Her eyes flickered back and forth between the two of them,

“Who are you?” she asked, unsure of who she was posing the question to. Mariann let Silvia make her own grand introduction,

“My dear, my name is Silvia Plume. I am fortunate enough to call Miss Faedelle my dear friend, and _she_ is fortunate enough to call me her esteemed benefactor,” Marianne smiled at the jab, “I found her when our Mr. Blande had run her through and left her for dead, and now she is to be wed to a Lord,” she boasted. Marianne’s face flushed significantly as Miriam looked at her in awe,

“She is teasing, Miss Fletcher. Silvia is a kind and generous benefactor of promising young ladies, not a matchmaker,” she gave Plum a meaningful look,

“Am I not?” she raised an eyebrow at Marianne, but turned back to Mariam quickly, “Now tell me, Miss Fletcher, how can you recommend yourself?” she asked brusquely. Miriam was ready with an answer this time,

“I, well, I play the pianoforte and the harp, I can sing well enough,” she furrowed her brow in concentration,

“Can you dance?”

“Of course,”

“What languages can you speak?”

“French and German,"

“Quelle est la maîtrise de votre français?” 

”Très courant. J'ai étudié avec une gouvernante de Strasbourg depuis dix ans.” 

”Und dein Deutscher?” 

”Zwolf Jahre war mein Lehrer aus Stuttgart,“ 

“Absolutely splendid,” Plum trilled, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Marianne watched their back-and-forth with both awe and joy, wondering if she was perhaps slightly inadequate beside the very accomplished Miss Miriam Fletcher. She laughed inwardly at her silly musings. She had found a most beloved friend in Silvia, and would be forever grateful for generosity and instruction, but Miriam needed Plum more than she did 

“B-But…” Miriam stammered, “Why would you go to such trouble over me? We have never met before today, you have no reason to afford me so much kindness,” Plum sat back and offered the young woman a warm, genuine smile, 

“My heart bleeds, my dear. I have a soft spot for the less fortunate, and your potential is staggering. I simply cannot let you go to waste,” she replied. Miriam looked as though she may weep once more, 

“But will they really believe it? My parents?” her voice cracked, “I never…Roland and I, we _never_ …” Plum reached across the table and took Miriam’s hands reassuringly, 

“I know, my dear, I know. I can see it in your eyes. And believe you me,” she leaned in and lowered her voice, “This entire country hangs on my every word. Even if you had visited Mr. Blande’s bed, no one would be the wiser,” she gave her hand a squeeze. Miriam looked as though she might faint. 

* 

Thee three emerged from Birch Terrace at half five, chatting like old friends and planning for their next meeting, 

“Join us for dinner tomorrow eve, my dear, you are most welcome,” Silvia assured her, 

“Surely, we should consult Lord McGregor on such an invitation,” Marianne teased, and Silvia waved her off with a chuckled, 

“You, my dear, are to be the Lady of Windcrest. What do _you_ say about it?” She retorted. Marianne opened her mouth to prod her in return, but in her peripheral she caught sight of Bog approaching on horseback. She turned toward him and smiled sweetly. He seemed to have survived the day, which was all she could have hoped for. As he drew nearer, Marianne noticed Miriam’s look of bewilderment a she watched him approach. She leaned over and whispered, 

“I promise you, he isn’t as frightening as he appears, and Dragonfly loves having his nose petted,” 

“Who is he?” Miriam asked quietly as Bog dismounted, 

“My nephew, Lord Barnabus McGregor,” Silvia chimed in, Miriam’s eyes widened, but Marianne did not perceive it. She met Bog at his horse’s side, tenderly laying her hand against his arm. Miriam watched as he took Marianne’s hand and kissed it softly. He must have sensed her eyes on him, for he turned to meet her gaze almost immediately. His icy blue eyes pierced her, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She forced herself to take a deep breath, gathered her courage, then marched over to him. He watched her approached, his stare somewhat disdainful, yet slightly amused, 

“My Lord, this is Miriam Fletcher,” Marianne said amiably as she reached them. Bog studied the young woman for a moment before bowing cordially, 

“How do you do?” he said stiffly, clearly still unsure how to process the situation, 

“It was you,” Miriam breathed, Bog looked up suspiciously, 

“I beg your pardon?” he asked tersely, but his tone did little to dissuade her, 

“The ball,” she clarified, and Bog raised an eyebrow, 

“Aye…?” 

“I heard about it afterward. He…you fought with him,” she said reverently, “He had a firearm, and still, you fought,” she looked at Marianne, then back to Bog who was quickly turning red, “You made sure he was locked away,” Bog scrambled for a response, 

“Well, it was not quite as simple as all that,” he mumbled, “Marianne broke a vase over his head,” Marianne nudged him with her elbow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. Miriam simply stared in wonderment, 

“He got what he deserved,” Silvia agreed solemnly, patting Miriam gently on the shoulder. Miriam looked back and forth between the three of them, quickly brushing away a tear that escaped down her cheek, 

“I have never known such insurmountable kindness. I will try to b deserving of it,” she murmured, “Thank you all so much. Thank you,” Silvia drew an around her new ward, comforting her softly, and Marianne looked up at Bog. His expression was one of bewilderment infused with raw emotion. He swallowed heavily, and Marianne wondered how he felt knowing how deeply he had affected this young girl, whom he had never met. He had paved the way for he to find happiness and opportunity in the capable hands of his effervescent aunt, and as he looked down to meet her gaze, pure wonder in his eyes, she knew that he felt it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? I sure hope so, because I know y'all want this wedding!! I've been doing lots of research on 19th century Scottish wedding traditions, and it's definitely going to pay off. Until next time, please feel free to let me know what you think. I love reading your reviews, they always boost my morale!!


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